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Why did the young painter, as he observed these little things, feel as if the sun shone with unusual splendor? Why did he think he had never heard a bird sing so sweetly as one that hung at an open window they passed? Nay, why in that moment was he almost willing to paint Abel Newt as the Endymion of his great picture? They turned into Chambers Street, in which was the little church where Dr.
"My father's been unfortunate, Sir, and I want to do something for myself. He advised me to come to you." "Why?" "Because he said you would give me good advice if you couldn't give me employment." "Well, Sir, you seem a strong, likely lad. Have you ever been in a store?" "No, Sir. I left school last week." Mr. Newt looked out of the window. "Your father's been unfortunate?" "Yes, Sir."
"I'll name it to Newt, if so be he's thar." "I knowed in reason she'd have the mullygrubs over them doin's." "You cain't handily blame her." "Air ye plumb bereft?" "How come it was this: he done me dirt." "I ain't carin' which nor whether about it." "Sam went to Andrews or to Murphy, one." "I tuk my fut in my hand and lit out." "He lit a rag fer home."
Then, with the old harshness stealing into her face again, she rose calmly, carrying the miniature in her hand, and went out of the room, and down the stairs into the library, which was opposite the parlor in which Abel Newt had seen the picture of old Grandpa Burt at the age of ten, holding a hoop and book.
The jury returned that the deceased Abel Newt came to his death by the hands of some person or persons unknown. The shop was closed, officers were left in charge, and the body was borne away. General Belch was in his office reading the morning paper when Mr. William Condor entered. They shook hands. Upon the General's fat face there was an expression of horror and perplexity, but Mr.
Hope Wayne stood pale, incredulous, and confounded while Abel Newt, with some of the old fire in the eye and the old sweetness in the voice, poured out these rapid words, and advanced toward her. "Stop, Sir," she said, as soon as she could command herself. "Is this all you have to say?" "Don't drive me to despair," he said, suddenly, in reply, and so fiercely that Hope Wayne started. "Listen."
He had completed what he called the study for the work, which represented, he said, the Goddess alighting upon Latmos while Endymion slept. He pointed out to his companions, especially to Lawrence Newt, the pure antique classical air of the composition.
I had a shock when I did so, and it was lucky I was holding it firm, for when it touched the water it struggled in my hand like a fish or a newt and almost slipped out. I dipped it three times and thought I felt it growing smaller in my hand: and indeed when I looked at it I found it had shut up its leaves and curled them in quite close, so that the whole thing was little more than a bulb.
Then, still speaking, but fearsomely animated, he clutched frantically, but always a leetle behindhand, at the unknown monster which now reached the imprisoning neckband. Here he tore at the button the divine, not the newt and broke it free!
And yet the words were heard: "I hold Thee with a trembling hand, And will not let Thee go; Till steadfastly by faith I stand, And all Thy goodness know." On a pleasant evening in the same month of June Mr. Abel Newt entertained a few friends at supper.
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