"Mr. Westover," the woman began, even as she swept her skirts forward
before she sat down, "I want to ask you whether you would let that
picture of yours go on part board? I'll give you back just as much as you
say of this money."

He looked round and saw that she had in the hand dropped in her lap the
bills he had given her after supper.

"Why, I couldn't, very well, Mrs. Durgin--" he began.

"I presume you'll think I'm foolish," she pursued. "But I do want that
picture; I don't know when I've ever wanted a thing more. It's just like
Lion's Head, the way I've seen it, day in and day out, every summer since
I come here thirty-five years ago; it's beautiful!"

"Mrs. Durgin," said Westover, "you gratify me more than I can tell you. I
wish--I wish I could let you have the picture. I--I don't know what to
say--"

"Why don't you let me have it, then? If we ever had to go away from
here--if anything happened to us--it's the one thing I should want to
keep and take with me. There! That's the way I feel about it. I can't
explain; but I do wish you'd let me have it."

Some emotion which did not utter itself in the desire she expressed made
her voice shake in the words. She held out the bank-notes to him, and
they rustled with the tremor of her hand.

"Mrs. Durgin, I suppose I shall have to be frank with you, and you