"Eh?" he ejaculated.
"I isn't done nothin' at it since."
"'I put away childish things,'" flashed inevitably into Cobden's mind. He was somewhat alarmed. "Why not since then?" he asked.
"'Tis not a man's work, sir."
"Again, why not?"
"'Tis a sort o'—silly thing—t' do."
"Good God!" Cobden thought, appalled. "The lad has strangled his gift!"
Terry Lute laughed then.
"I'm sorry, sir," he said quickly, with a wistful smile, seeking forgiveness; "but I been watchin' you workin' away there like mad with all them little brushes. An' you looked so sort o' funny, sir, that I jus' couldn't help—laughin'." Again he threw back his head, and once more, beyond his will, and innocent of offense and blame, he laughed a great, free laugh.
It almost killed James Cobden.