death. The blood was in his head, the scent of delirious deeds
which he knew now that he could do. But he was an honest and loyal young
American, no matter what he had done: he could not hesitate long. One
glance at the sleeping form of his small child, dependent upon him for
the best in life, probably settled the matter.

In the calm of the still night it _was_ settled--and by him.

* * * * *

The little colony of the Hotel du Passage were genuinely concerned over
the hurried departure of the Bragdons, who were much liked. All--but
one--were at the pier that September morning to wish them farewell and
good luck and much happiness. It was understood that family matters had
recalled them unexpectedly to the States. Too bad! Bragdon was a
promising chap, the great painter pronounced at _dejeuner_,--willing to
work, intelligent, with his own ideas. Had any one seen Madame
Saratoff's portrait? He had kept very quiet about that--perhaps it had
not come off. Well, he needed years of hard work, which he wouldn't get
in America, worse luck. With a sigh he went to his day's task of
completing the thirty-seventh edition of the well-known
landscape,--"Beside the Bay at Klerac," with a fresh variation of four
colored sails on the horizon instead of three....

And meanwhile the slow train to Paris was carrying a man, who having
climbed his hill and looked upon the promised land from afar, must turn
his back for the present upon all its glories and await Opportunity.

XII

"COME HOME"

It is a long and tiresome journey in a second-class compartment from the
farther end of Brittany to Paris, even under the best of circumstances.
To Jack Bragdon and Milly, with the vivid memory of their personal wreck
on that rocky coast, it was monotonously painful. They dared not ask
each other,--"What next?" At first Milly thought there could be no next,
though she was really glad not to be making this journey alone with her
child, as she had expected to do. To the man who sat in the opposite
corner with closed eyes and set lips, it seemed to matter little for the
present what the next step was to be.

Happily an impersonal fate settled this for them. Bragdon found at the
bankers in Paris an answer to his appeal for funds. The curt cable read,
without the aid of code,--"Come Home." Probably that would have been the
wisest thing to do in any case. But it would have meant a hard struggle
with himself to