"A dauber, we hope not,—mercenary, assuredly not;—and hireling is a word not to be applied to one who receives payment for any generous labour," said Catherine. "If you insist upon painting 'the grand picture' for nothing, Mr. Hunter, you will certainly escape from all trouble in relation to it. Not even my father would think a moment of imposing such an unrecompensed task upon you, or such dishonour upon himself."
"You mortify me, Miss Loring," said Herman: "I can scarce call myself a painter by any thing more than inclination. If I have adopted the profession, it is not to make my bread by it; and indeed I can scarce say, I have adopted it at all.—That is," he added, in some confusion, for Catherine regarded him with a look of surprise—"In short, Miss Loring, it has been my good fortune to be put above the actual necessity of adopting this profession, or any other, for my support. I paint, because I love the art, and have nothing better to do; it suits my idle habits. I never have received a recompense for my labour, (you should have called it my amusement, for such it is,) and perhaps I never will;—not that I scorn recompense as being degrading, but because I need it not. The pleasure I feel in the labour is my reward; and I am doubly rewarded, when my poor sketches afford pleasure to those whose good opinion I covet. You have thrown me under obligation, Miss Loring; and I claim of your generosity, or if that word will not be permitted, of your justice, an opportunity to oblige in return."
"Your argument is singular, yet almost conclusive," said Catherine, with a pleasant accent, yet with a more distant air. "And so you are no poor painter—a wandering son of genius—after all; but a knight of romance, roaming the world over, with palette for buckler, and brush and maul-stick in lieu of lance and sword? Really, you have lost much by the transformation: it was a great pleasure to me, to think I could patronise you—encourage an unfriended genius. But now—ah! my folly offends you! I beg your pardon; I will trifle no more."
"I am not offended, Miss Loring," said the youth, who had coloured deeply while she spoke; "but I did think your tone satirical, and indicative of a suspicion that I was not what I profess myself to be. Suffer me then to be a poor painter, as I really am; though not a man in very restricted pecuniary circumstances. I confess, that I was presumptuous, to think you—that is, your father,—would accept any gift at my hands; yet the persuasion that I had it in my power to give you—that is, him, a particular gratification, emboldened me to think I might presume to attempt what I thought a mere simple, allowable compliment."
"Pray, Mr. Hunter," said Catherine, "say nothing more about it. I believe you are right, and I wrong. We act here"—and here she smiled as merrily as before—"entirely upon impulses and instincts; and if impulses and instincts be conformable, as doubtless, some day, they will, we will accept the picture as freely as it is offered. But I see you are impatient to go;"—this was a discovery authorized by no particular symptom of dissatisfaction on the part of the painter, who, on the contrary, seemed well pleased to continue the tête-à-tête;—"you are impatient to go, and here comes Phoebe.—Phoebe, my dear, have the goodness to call Richard, to attend Mr. Hunter to Mrs. Bell's.—I am glad to see you walk so firmly, and look so well.—I will positively be your escort to the gate. It becomes me in my function of Lieutenant-commandant; and I will dismiss you with all the honours of war."
Thus speaking, and whiling away the walk with light and joyous conversation, Miss Loring conducted the guest to the park gate; where her eye suddenly caught sight of a little bush, of no great beauty of appearance, but exhaling an agreeable odour. This she instantly began to rob of its branches, expressing pleasure at the discovery.
"It is sweet-fern," she said, in answer to the painter's question, "not very rare, to be sure, but the first specimen that has come into the paddock of its own accord; all the rest I planted myself. Now, sir, this is neither myrtle nor sweet-grass; but it is good to smell at; and in token that my extreme hurry to drive you out of my father's house proceeded from no ill will, but from true benevolence, and as much friendship as one can feel at a week's notice, I present you this same odoriferous plant, and advise you to make a medicine of it. It is said to be a fine tonic and cordial; and, I warrant me, Elsie will know all about it."
"I shall apply it to a better use," said the painter, gaily. "You know, it is fern-seed which enables man to walk invisible.—Now, as a knight of romance, I may have need of such a magical auxiliary."
"Oh, if you laugh at me for that," said Catherine, "I see there is peace between us."
"You could have added but one more injunction," said Herman, "to make the gift agreeable. Had you told me to follow its example—you know it came into the paddock of its own accord!—I should have"——