'Let me see, Marjorie,' said another voice; 'is it the old one with white hair and a long, long beard?'

'No, it's quite a young one; his hair's black, and he hasn't got a beard at all.'

'Let me look. Yes, I can see him. I like him much better than the old one; hasn't he got nice red cheeks?'

'Hush! he'll hear,' said the other voice. 'You naughty boy! I believe he did hear; I saw him laugh.'

I jumped up at this, and looked up, but I could see nothing but a garden wall and a thick bushy tree, which was growing just inside it.

'Hullo, who's there?' I shouted.

But there was dead silence; and as no one appeared, and nothing more happened, I sat down and went on with my picture.

Many people passed by as I was painting, and tried to look at what I was doing. Some glanced out of the corners of their eyes as they walked on; others paused behind me and silently watched me; a few made remarks to one another about my picture; one or two offered suggestions, thought I should have had a better view lower down the hill, or hoped that I would make the colouring vivid enough. The children with whom I had travelled seemed to feel a kind of partnership in my picture.

'Let's go and look at our artist,' Bob would say to Harry; 'his picture is going to be the best of the lot.'

They were so fond of watching me, and so much excited over