nce
of many an unconsidered English Tommy who plodded doggedly forward
with the relief columns across the dusty veldt. Drivers of great
expresses, miners, quarrymen, now and then wear that look. Springing,
as it does, not from strength of body, but from the subjugation of the
latter and all fleshy shrinking and weariness, it links man with the
greatness of the unseen.

There was only the one figure silhouetted against long rows of dusky
pines, but the meaning of the way in which the hard, scarred hands
were clenched on the big ax was very plain, and Ida could fill in from
memory the form of the big chopper and the clusters of expectant men.

"Excellent!" said one of the guests. "That fellow means to fight. He's
in hard training, too, and that has now and then a much bigger effect
than the toughening of his muscles upon the man who submits himself to
it. Is it a portrait or a type?"

The speaker was from the metropolis, and while Arabella hesitated, Ida
answered him with a suggestive ring in her voice.

"It's both, one should like to think," she said. "The man came from
England; and if you can send us out more of that type we shall be
satisfied."

Then she and the questioner became conscious of the awkward silence
that had fallen upon the rest. They belonged to the dales, and they
glanced covertly at Weston, who was gazing at the picture, purple in
face, and with a very hard look in his eyes. Ida guessed that it was
the scarred workman's hands and the track-grader's old blue shirt and
tattered duck that had hurt his very curious pride. Still, it was
evident that he could face the situation.

"Yes," he said, a trifle hoarsely, "it's a portrait--an excellent one.
In fact, as some of you are quite aware, it's my son."

He rose, and crossing a strip of lawn sat down heavily near Ida. The
latter, looking around, saw Arabella's satisfied smile suddenly
subside; but the next moment Weston, leaning forward, laid his hand
roughly on her arm.

"Why Clarence permitted that portrait to be painted I don't quite
understand, though he was fond of flying in the face of all ideas of
decency," he said. "You must have met him out yonder. What was he
doing?"

"Shoveling gravel on a railroad that my father was grading," said Ida,
with rather grim amusement, for she was determined that the man should
face the plain reality, even if it hurt him.

"Shoveling gravel!" said Weston. "But he is my son."

"I'm afraid that doesn't coun