rightly know--I likely never will know--what you meant in my life. I
handled you in my heart like a flower. Before God, I had a religion for
you. And that was just why, when I thought you was bad, that it drove me
crazy. I wonder if you will understand this. You are awful young and
awful ignorant. And I have hurt your pride. You are terrible proud for
your years, Miss Sheila. I ache all over when I think that I hurt your
pretty mouth. I hope it is smiling now. I am moving out of Millings,--Me
and Momma and Babe. But Girlie is agoing to marry Jim. He run right back
to her like a little lost lamb the second you was gone. Likely, he'll
never touch liquor again. I haven't heard from Dickie. I guess he's gone
where the saloons are bigger and where you can get oysters with your
drinks. He always was a damn fool. I would dearly like to go over to
Hidden Creek and see you, but I feel like I'd better not. It would hurt
me if I got a turn-down from you like it will hurt me if you don't
answer this letter, which is a mighty poor attempt to tell you my bad
reasons for behaving like I did. I am not sorry I thrashed Dickie. He had
ought to be thrashed good and plenty. And he has sure paid me off by
burning down my Aura. That was a saloon in a million, Miss Sheila, and
the picture of you standing there back of my bar, looking so dainty and
sweet and fine in your black dress and your frills--well, ma'am, I'll
sure try to be thinking of that when I cash in.

"Well, Miss Sheila, I wish you good fortune in whatever you do, and I
hope that if you ever need a friend you will overlook my bad break and
remember the artist that tried to put you in his big work and--failed."

This extraordinary document was signed--"Sylvester." Sheila was left
bewildered with strange tears in her throat.

CHAPTER VII

SANCTUARY

There came to the restaurant where Dickie worked, a certain sallow and
irritable man, no longer in his early youth. He came daily for one of his
three meals: it might be lunch or dinner or even breakfast, Dickie was
always in haste to serve him. For some reason, the man's clever and
nervous personality intrigued his interest. And this, although his
customer never threw him a glance, scowled at a newspaper, barked out an
order, gulped his food, stuck a fair-sized tip under the edge of his
plate, and jerked himself away.

On a certain sluggish noon hour in August, Dickie, as far as the
kitchen door with a tray balanced on hi