led it--fame.

The man who had painted the picture of the spring glade, and who had so
faithfully portrayed the truth and beauty of Sibyl Andres as she stood
among the roses, listened to this woman's plans for making his portrait of
herself famous, with a feeling of embarrassment and shame.

"Do you really think that the work merits such prominence as you say will
be given it?" he asked doubtfully.

She laughed knowingly, "Just wait until Jim Rutlidge's 'write-up' appears,
and all the others follow his lead, and you'll see! The picture is clever
enough--you know it as well as I. It is beautiful. It has everything that
we women want in a portrait. I really don't know much about what you
painters call art; but I know that when Jim and our friends get through
with it, your picture will have every mark of a great masterpiece, and
that you will be on the topmost wave of success."

"And then what?" he asked.

Again, she interpreted his words in the light of her own thoughts, and
with little attempt to veil the fire that burned in her eyes, answered,
"And then--I hope that you will not forget me."

For a moment he returned her look; then a feeling of disgust and shame for
her swept over him, and he again turned away, to stand gazing moodily out
of the window that looked into the rose garden.

"You seem to be disturbed and worried," she said, in a tone that implied a
complete understanding of his mood, and a tacit acceptance of the things
that he would say if it were not for the world.

He laughed shortly--"I fear you will think me ungrateful for your
kindness. Believe me, I am not."

"I know you are not," she returned. "But don't think that you had better
confess, just the same?"

He answered wonderingly, "Confess?"

"Yes." She shook her finger at him, in playful severity. "Oh, I know what
you have been up to all summer--running wild with your mountain girl!
Really, you ought to be more discreet."

Aaron King's face burned as he stammered something about not knowing what
she meant.

She laughed gaily. "There, there, never mind--I forgive you--now that you
are safely back in civilization again. I know you artists, and how you
must have your periods of ah--relaxation--with rather more liberties than
the common herd. Just so you are careful that the world doesn't know _too_
much."

At this frank revelation of her mind, the man stood amazed. For the
construction she put upon his relation with the girl whose pure a