Chip blushed and looked away from her. This was treading close to his
deep-hidden, inner self.

"I don't know where I learned. I never took a lesson in my life, except
from watching people and horses and the country, and remembering the
lines they made, you know. I always made pictures, ever since I can
remember--but I never tried colors very much. I never had a chance,
working around cow-camps and on ranches."

"I'd like to have you look over some of my sketches and things--and I've
paints and canvas, if you ever care to try that. Come up to the house
some evening and I'll show you my daubs. They're none of them as good
as 'The Old Maid.'"

"I wish you'd tear that thing up!" said Chip, vehemently.

"Why? The likeness is perfect. One would think you were designer for a
fashion paper, the way you got the tucks in my sleeve and the braid on
my collar--and you might have had the kindness to TELL me my hat was on
crooked, I think!"

There was a rustle in the loose straw, a distant slam of the stable
door, and Chip sat alone with his horse, whittling abstractedly at his
pencil till his knife blade grated upon the metal which held the eraser.