"Oh! an infant prodigy." The man smiled. "A village genius and the makings of a great artist." He put his hand in his pocket and drew forth a shilling from the few coins there.
"Your first payment, I expect. Go on and prosper—brother."
The boy took the coin shyly. His heart went out in a dream after the artist's words. He was to be great, then—an artist too. The cry of the distant woman to him tumbled him from his heights. He snatched his forgotten basket and ran down the road towards the village to do the message he had not thought of since he came upon the artist on his way. He ran now, the little girl following more slowly. The artist again turned the clay in his hands.
"Alas!" he said. "Here is genius condemned to oblivion for want of a rich patron, and you must fetch and carry because the harsh voice of poverty calls you, leaving the dear delights and love of this behind."
He laid his brush upon the canvas with an infinite, caressing touch, making it copy the glorious copper of the deep waters, and with his movement the clay head rolled upon the ground. He stepped forward, placing his foot
