Some might call the face of the kneeling prodigal hideous, might assert that the landscape was slight and unfinished, that the figure in the doorway was too sketchy.

Not so our enthusiast.

This was the Prodigal Son, and as for the bending, forgiving father, all that he could imagine of forgiveness and pity was there realised in a few scratches of the needle.

He turned the prints and withdrew _Tobit Blind_.

In every line of this figure of the wandering old man, tapping his stick upon the pavement, feeling his way by the wall, was blindness, actual blindness--all the misery and loneliness and indignity of it.
"Are these for sale ?" he asked the smiling proprietor, without the slightest hope that he could afford one.
"Oh yes! _Tobit Blind_ you can have for two shillings and sixpence.
_Abraham's Sacrifice_, _Christ at Emmaus_, and _The Prodigal Son_ are four shillings each." The enthusiast could not conceal his astonishment.