s. As madame came back, gasping in her haste, he
ran to meet her, and, seizing the brandy and the glasses, drew her with
him to the table.

"Madame, you are a Frenchwoman--therefore an artist. Tell me what you
think of this!"

In his excitement he spoke in English, but madame understood his actions
if not his words. Full of curiosity she bent over the boy's shoulder,
peered into the sketch, then threw up her hands in genuine admiration.

'Ah, but he was an artist, was monsieur! A true artist! It was
delicious--ravishing!' She turned from one of her customers to the
other. 'If monsieur would but put his name to this picture she would
never again have the table washed; and in time to come, when he had made
his big success--'

"Good, madame! Good! When he has made his big success he will come back
here and laugh and cry over this, and say, 'God be with the youth of
us!' as we say in my old country. Come, boy, put your name to it!"

[Illustration: "WHY, BOY, THIS IS CLEVER--CLEVER--CLEVER!"]

The boy glanced up at him. His face was aglow, there were tears of
emotion in his eyes.

"I can say nothing," he cried, "but that I--I have never been so happy
in my life." And, bending over his sketch, he wrote across the
marble-topped table a single word--the word 'Max.'

The Frenchwoman bent over his shoulder. "Max!" she murmured. "A pretty
name!"

The Irishman looked as well. "Max! So that's what they call you? Max!
Well, let's drink to it!" He filled the three glasses and raised his
own.

"To the name of Max!" he said. "May it be known from here to the back of
God's speed!" He swallowed the brandy and laid down his glass.

"To M. Max!" The Frenchwoman smiled. "A great future, monsieur!" She
sipped and bowed.

Of the three, the boy alone sat motionless. His heart felt strangely
full, the tears in his eyes were dangerously near to falling.

"Come, Max! Up with your glass!"

"Monsieur, I--I beg you to excuse me! My heart is very full of your
kindness."

"Nonsense, boy! Drink!"

The boy laughed with a catch in his breath, then he drank a little with
nervous haste, coughing as he laid his glass down. The _cognac_ of the
Maison Gustav was of a fiery nature.

The Irishman laughed. "Ah, another peep behind the mask! You may be an
artist, young man--- you may have advanced ideas--but, for all that,
you're only out of the nursery! It's for me to make a man of you, I see.
Come, madame, the _addition_, if you please! We