leave that face of mine among the other faces?" asked Mr. Rush,
with all seriousness.

The organist looked nervously around as if he expected something to
justify the trouble this question occasioned him.

"Yes--yes--I'll take the risk," he answered, but he spoke without a smile.
One thought alone prevented him from heartily wishing himself rid of this
companion, who, in spite of him, had cast such a gloom over his Christmas
day. The man seemed to have more need of him than Summerman had of his
dinner deferred.

They set out together to walk through the frosty air under the cloudless
sky. The sun was near to setting. In half an hour a deep orange belt
would unroll round the east, flaming signs would mark the heavens, and a
great star hang in the midst of an amethyst hemicycle.

They noticed that the sun was near to setting, and one of them saw the
glory.

"I want you to tell me honestly," said the other. "You have taken my
picture; what do you think it looks like? That is a fair question."

"Like misery," replied Summerman, promptly enough.

"Is that all? I thought worse. I thought it looked like a very devil's
face. When I go back, I'll destroy it. But, then, it looks like me! Now, I
can't afford to live a scarecrow. I believe I wasn't made to frighten
others to death. I'd choose to die myself first." He dropped his voice to
a whisper. "I've been trying to do that. Tried twice. Is there any
particular luck in a third time, that you know of?"

Summerman did not answer, though Rush was looking full upon him; neither
did he avoid the long and piercing gaze the stranger fixed upon him. He
met that like a man.

"You think I'm mad," at last said Mr. Rush.

"Not exactly."

"Thank you. But you are a gipsy. Read my fortune."

Gravely Summerman looked at the fair, smooth palm that was suddenly
stretched before him.

"You have been unfortunate," said he.

"Oh, no; you mustn't admit that. Only a little money lost, that's all."

"Is it all, indeed?" asked Summerman, and he dropped the palm. Then he
shook his head. "I do not think it could have served you so. A little
loss!" said he.

"That is because fortune never made a fool of you. Let me alone; I want to
think." He spoke in the quick, peremptory manner of a man who is
accustomed to command; but he came very near to smiling the next moment,
as he looked down at the little person whom he had ordered into silence.

Then he broke the silence he had enjoined.