Los Angeles herald., 1905-04-09

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elixir. and the thread of beauty
was on the hills and the lake and
the fields Of grass and fodder ripened
by August suns and tanned by early
frosts to a mellow autumn bronze.
With the passing Of summer all the
boarders had left the little resort of
Lakemere. except the two artists
Richard Thorne and Henry Butler
who had put up at a farmhouse on
sketching tour since July.
Thorne's daily custom since his com
ing was to feed the barnyard animals,
and this morning, as they huddled
about him in a famshed bunch, while
he gave out the coveted morsels from
the well curb his eye studied the poet
ical Landscape wrapped in a soft haze,
like evaporating incense.
He was waiting for Butler, who did
not keep him long, but came through
the side door of the dining room and
stood watching his occupation with
something of the humoring amusement
that elders feel fo- the play of very
young children. over his shoulder was
flung an artists field outfit, strapped
into a compact bundle that could be
managed without strain or fatigue.
His own dwarfed and misshapen
body made him seem half akin to the
dumb beasts in the yard, for his long
arms. swinging to his knees, gave him
the numbering awkwardness of an ape,
and his huge splay feet might have
belonged to an amphibian. But the
rest of him-the great head. with its
shock of hair and exaggerated fea-
lures, and the grotesque double hump
was reproduced from Punch's trav-
esty of human shape.
His amusement at Thorne's foolish
game was only momentary, and he
beckoned that he was waiting, but that
artist had already dismissed the mot
ley congress, and, crossing the yard
to the porch where the hunchback
stood, gathered up two stools and a
couple of white umbrellas, when they
at once set out on their sketching err
rand. Neither of them needed a small
group, two women and a man. linger-
ing on the way to the lake to watch
this strangely mismated pair from the
other side of the fence dividing the
farm and the public road.
Nature had given Thorne every
grace denied the hunchback. He was
tall and handsome, and appealed to
women keenly through a compelling
masculine force, beneath the strength
of which one got the sense that the
mans spiritual essence was sweetness
and large compassion. A closer view
of him discovered his artistic quality
in the pensive, deep set eye, the sensi-
tive mouth and the nervous dilation of
the nostrils under strong feeling.
Fellowship between two such men
seemed out of character, though neith-
er Thorne nor Butler seemed aware
of it. They had spent the summer, as
they had the last ten years, together
in sufficing intimacy. roaming the
woods and hills in search of pictures
and sharing long tramps after distant
glories, for Butler possessed the
enormous strength and endurance so
often compensating for his form Of
affliction and could tire Thorne in ev-
cry test of physical prowess. The
bond between them, which is often
true of the friendships of men. was so
complete that they lived rather apart
in its independence.
As tho outcome of
avoidance of other people they were
not to enjoy their present dainty pas
toral without adverse criticism.
Human nature resents what it can
not explain in its neighbor, and Lake.
mere was no exception, for its farm
ers were deeply puzzled over these two
men from their first appearance. The
discord between Thorne's elegant fig
ure and the dwarf with the crook
back, half loping half walking, be-
side him in their daily excursions re-
volted the farmers wives. Grim old
superstitions revived among them, and
though each one secretly contrived to
touch the hunchback "for luck" once
during the season they agreed among
themselves that such friendship was
beyond human, and finally came to a
whisper under their breath that But
Ter must be the others familiar, from
whom he could not escape until some
evil bargain had been closed or Thorne
was providentially delivered from the
deviltry. The deep interest in this re-
lation agitated the good women as no
case had done in long years, passing
the bounds of village gossip into the
realm Of souls salvation, and there
was not a womans hand in the lot but
would have snatched the brand from
the burning at the risk Of personal
hurt.
If the artists were aware Of this
state of the public mind they went
merrlly on their way regardless.
This morning they crossed the burnt
parched meadows sloping down to tbs
lake, where they meant TO pitch their
white umbrellas and paint the autumn
spell on the water in its cup Of fam
boyant hills. As they ploughed