scorched to flame-color by the light of southern suns, and borrowed an
even deeper crimson from his gleeful greeting of his most appreciative
patron. He was making a careful and charming little sketch. On Rowland's
asking him how he had spent his summer, he gave an account of his
wanderings which made poor Mallet sigh with a sense of more contrasts
than one. He had not been out of Italy, but he had been delving deep
into the picturesque heart of the lovely land, and gathering a wonderful
store of subjects. He had rambled about among the unvisited villages of
the Apennines, pencil in hand and knapsack on back, sleeping on straw
and eating black bread and beans, but feasting on local color, rioting,
as it were, on chiaroscuro, and laying up a treasure of pictorial
observations. He took a devout satisfaction in his hard-earned wisdom
and his happy frugality. Rowland went the next day, by appointment,
to look at his sketches, and spent a whole morning turning them over.
Singleton talked more than he had ever done before, explained them all,
and told some quaintly humorous anecdote about the production of each.

"Dear me, how I have chattered!" he said at last. "I am afraid you had
rather have looked at the things in peace and quiet. I did n't know I
could talk so much. But somehow, I feel very happy; I feel as if I had
improved."

"That you have," said Rowland. "I doubt whether an artist ever passed a
more profitable three months. You must feel much more sure of yourself."

Singleton looked for a long time with great intentness at a knot in the
floor. "Yes," he said at last, in a fluttered tone, "I feel much more
sure of myself. I have got more facility!" And he lowered his voice as
if he were communicating a secret which it took some courage to impart.
"I hardly like to say it, for fear I should after all be mistaken. But