The sun played upon the flock, turning its dirty grey to white, caught the little figure of the shepherd-boy, as he stood shouting and waving, or glittered on the foaming stream beside him.

Purple shadows bathed the fell beyond--and on its bosom the rustic scene emerged--a winter idyl.
Fenwick sat down upon a rock, ransacked his pockets for sketch-book and paints, and began to sketch.

When he had made his 'note,' he sat lost a while in the pleasure of his own growing skill and sharpening perceptions, and dreaming of future 'subjects.' A series of 'Westmoreland months,' illustrating the seasons among the fells and the life of the dalesmen, ran through his mind.

Nature appeared to his exultant sense as a vast treasure-house stored for him only--a mine inexhaustible offered to his craftsman's hand.

For him the sweeping hues, the intricate broideries--green or russet, red or purple--of this winter world!--for him the delicacy of the snow, the pale azure of the sky, the cloud-shadows, the white becks, the winding river in the valley floor, the purple crags, the lovely accents of light and shade, the hints of composition that wooed his eager eye.