Everything had so far come to pass as the withered old Kanaka woman had foretold. He was accompanied by a young man of about seven-and-twenty, who carried his easel, set it in its place, laid the canvass upon it, opened the paint box, took out the brushes and palette, and, in short, paid him the most assiduous attention. He embraced her like her father once had. For a time she looked at no more apartments, and walked through gaunt and ill-cleaned streets, through the sordid under side of life, perplexed and troubled, ashamed of her previous obtuseness. It was a unique experience for her to wash him. An unhappy little sigh escaped her. “Then I don’t take this as final. "One'd think it rained fares, as well as blowed great guns. She found the silence comforting, as old people often do.
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