It was by no means lovely. The men and
birds were almost grotesque in their laboured resemblance to nature, and
bore signs of patient thought. The stranger turned the thing over on his
knee.
"Where did you learn this work?"
"I taught myself."
"And these zigzag lines represent--"
"A mountain."
The stranger looked.
"It has some meaning, has it not?"
The boy muttered confusedly.
"Only things."
The questioner looked down at him--the huge, unwieldy figure, in size a
man's, in right of his childlike features and curling hair a child's; and
it hurt him--it attracted him and it hurt him. It was something between
pity and sympathy.
"How long have you worked at this?"
"Nine months."
From his pocket the stranger drew his pocket-book, and took something from
it. He could fasten the post to his horse in some way, and throw it away
in the sand when at a safe distance.
"Will you take this for your carving?"
The boy glanced at the five-pound note and shook his head.
"No; I cannot."
"You think it is worth more?" asked the stranger with a little sneer.
He pointed with his thumb to a grave.
"No; it is for him."
"And who is there?" asked the stranger.
"My father."
The man silently returned the note to his pocket-book, and gave the carving
to the boy; and, drawing his hat over his eyes, composed himself to sleep.
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