Thomas Kinkade Mountain Memories painting

Thomas Kinkade Mountain Memories paintingThomas Kinkade Footprints in the sand paintingThomas Kinkade Christmas Cottage painting
McMaster ate alone. Henty lay without speaking, staring at the thatch.
Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr. McMaster, but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Henty resumed the reading of Martin Chuzzlewit where it had been interrupted.
Weeks passed hopelessly. They read Nicholas Nickleby and Little Dorrit and Oliver Twist. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a ltime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars’ worth of gold hung around their necks. Mr. McMaster was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and passo and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Henty had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man’s hand.
From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; at