d chilling as grave clothes. He tore
them off and got himself into things that were warm and dry, and
wrapping himself in an old dressing gown of flannel, sat down to
think.

He took the money his friend had brought him and counted it over. Good
old Ben Howard! Half of it must go to him, of course. And here were
finished canvases quite as good as the ones that had sold. Ben might
turn them to as good an account as the others,--yes,--here was enough
to carry him through a year and leave him leisure to paint unhampered
by the necessity of making pot boilers for a bare living.

"Tell me, were you never in love?" That soft, insinuating voice
haunted him against his will. In love? What did she know of love--the
divine passion? Love! Fame! Neither were possible to him. He bowed his
head upon the table, hiding his face, crushing the bank notes beneath
his arms. Deep in his soul the eye of his own conscience regarded
him,--an outcast hiding under an assumed name, covering the scar above
his temple with a falling lock of hair seldom lifted, and deep in his
soul a memory of a love. Oh, God! Dust and ashes! Dust and ashes!

He rose, and, taking his candle with him, opened a door leading from
the studio up a short flight of steps to a little cupboard of a
sleeping room. Here he cast himself on the bed and closed his eyes. He
must sleep: but no, he could not. After a time of restless tossing he
got up and drew an old portmanteau from the closet and threw the
contents out on the bed. From among them he picked up the thing he
sought and sat on the edge of his bed with it in his hands, turning it
over and regarding it, tieing and untieing the worn, frayed, but still
bright ribbons, which had once been the cherry-colored hair ribbons of
little Betty Ballard.

Suddenly he rose and lifted his head high, in his old, rather
imperious way, put out his candle, and looked through the small, dusty
panes of his window. It was day--early dawn. He was jaded and weary,
but he would try no longer to sleep. He must act, and shake off
sentimentalism. Yes, he must act. He bathed and dressed with care, and
then in haste, as if life depended on hurry, he packed the portmanteau
and stepped briskly into the studio, looking all about, noting
everything as if taking stock of it all, then sat down with pen and
paper to write.

The letter was a long one. It took time and thought. When he was
nearly through with it, Ben Howard lagged wearily in.

"Hallo