The man at the easel sprang to his feet. He was a tall, slender man,
with finely cut features and a pointed, blond beard. Susan had once
described him as "an awfully nice man to take care of, but not worth a
cent when it comes to takin' care of you." Yet there was every
evidence of loving protection in the arm he threw around his boy just
now.

"Want you? I always want you!" he cried affectionately. "Look! Do you
remember that moss we brought home yesterday? Well, I've got its twin
now." Triumphantly he pointed to the lower left-hand corner of the
picture on the easel, where was a carefully blended mass of greens and
browns.

"Oh, yes, why, so't is." (Keith had long since learned to see in his
father's pictures what his father saw.) "Say, dad, I wish't you'd tell
me about--my little brothers. Won't you, please?"

"And, Keith, look--do you recognize that little path? It's the one we
saw yesterday. I'm going to call this picture 'The Woodland Path'--and
I think it's going to be about the very best thing I ever did."

Keith was not surprised that his question had been turned aside:
questions that his father did not like to answer were always turned
aside. Usually Keith submitted with what grace he could muster; but
to-day he was in a persistent mood that would not be denied.

"Dad, WHY won't you tell me about my brothers? Please, what were their
names, and how old were they, and why did they die?"