"Half an hour, perhaps; while we've been sitting here."

Andy sighed heavily. "Wuth more'n I be, too, I reckon?"

The artist stared at him.

"I mean--" Andy was almost apologetic. "I know they come high--picters.
I don't suppose I could afford to buy it of ye--"

The artist's face lighted. "Do you want it?"

"Harr'et might,"--cautiously,--"if 't wa'n't too high. She's got an
easel for it. She al'ays cal'ated to have me done, and she'd got as fur
as the easel." His eye returned almost wistfully to the canvas. "Willum
says it's a good likeness." He spoke with a kind of dubious pride.

"It _is_ good." The young man's eye rested on it affectionately. "It's a
ripping good sketch--and you may have it and welcome."

Andy drew back a step. "You mean--"

"I'll give it to you, yes." The artist was holding it out laughingly.
"And some day you'll sit for me again. That'll be pay enough."

Andy rubbed his hands carefully on the sides of his trousers. He reached
them out for the canvas. "It's kind o' wet," he said. "I'll have to hold
it keerful." He took it in both hands, beaming upon it with a kind of
somber joy. Carrying it at arm's-length, he bore it away over the rocks.
The artist watched the stern, angular figure loom against the sky and
dip down over the cliff out of sight.