The portrait was of the head and shoulders alone, and when he had given it the last touch, the painter knew that, for once in his life, he had done a good thing. Never before; perhaps, had the fire of such inspiration been given him. Jethro, who expressed himself in terms (for him) of great enthusiasm, was for going to Boston immediately to purchase a frame commensurate with the importance of such a work of art, but the artist had his own views on that subject and sent to New York for this also.
The day after the completion of the picture a rugged figure in rawhide boots and coonskin cap approached Chester Perkins's house, knocked at the door, and inquired for the “Painter-man.” It was Jethro. The “Painter-man” forthwith went out into the rain behind the shed, where a somewhat curious colloquy took place.
“G-guess I'm willin' to pay you full as much as it's worth,” said Jethro, producing a cowhide wallet. “Er—what figure do you allow it comes to with the frame?”
The artist was past taking offence, since Jethro had long ago become for him an engrossing study.
“I will send you the bill for the frame, Mr. Bass,” he said, “the picture belongs to Cynthia.”
“Earn your livin' by paintin', don't you—earn your livin'?”
The painter smiled a little bitterly.
“No,” he said, “if I did, I shouldn't be—alive. Mr. Bass, have you ever done anything the pleasure of doing which was pay enough, and to spare?”
Jethro looked at him, and something very like admiration came into the face that was normally expressionless.
He put up his wallet a little awkwardly, and held out his hand more awkwardly.