" Jerry murmured,
wondering strangely whether the feeling that gripped her at the moment
could be joy or sorrow.

"They didn't leave you much of an inheritance. That's the only thing
that could be said against them. My father was partly to blame for that,
I guess, but I never had the courage to tell you so till now. You know
courage and Eugene Wellington never got on well together." Somehow his
words seemed to rattle harshly against Jerry's ears. "You know, my dad,
John Wellington, came out here to this very forsaken Sage Brush Valley
somewhere and started in to be a millionaire himself on short notice,
by the short-cut plan of finance. When the thing began to look like work
he threw up the whole blamed concern, just as I would have done. Work
never was a strong element in the Wellington blood, any more than
courage, you know." Gene stopped to light another cigarette. Then he
went on: "Well, after that, dad clung close to Jim Swaim and Uncle Darby
till he died. I guess, if the truth were told, he helped most to tear
your father down financially. He could do that kind of thing, I know.
Jim Swaim spent thousands stopping the cracks after dad, to save the
good name of Wellington for his daughter to wear--as your mother always
hoped you would, because I was an artist then. You see, Mrs. Swaim loved
art--and, as Aunt Darby always insisted (that was before you ran away
from her), because it would keep her money and Uncle Darby's all in the
family. That's why I'm so glad to bring all this fortune that I do to
you now. I'm just making up to you what your father lost through mine,
you see, and it came to me so easily, without my having to grub for it.
Just pleasing Aunt Darby and taking a soft snap of clerical work, with
short hours and good pay, instead of toiling at painting, even if I do
love the old palette and brush. And I used to think I'd rather do that
sort of thing than anything else in the world."

Jerry's eyes were fixed on the young artist's face with a gaze that
troubled him.

"Don't stare at me that way, Jerry. That isn't the picture I want you to
pose for when I paint your portrait, Saint Geraldine. Now listen,"
Eugene continued. "Your York Macpherson was East this spring, and he
told me that that wild-goose chase of dad's out here had left a desert
behind him. He said a poor devil of a fellow had fought for years
against the sand that dad sowed (I don't know how he did the sowing),
till it ate up about all thi