possibilities. Had any one banteringly told
Maurice Oakley that he had such a deep vein of sentiment, he would have
denied it with scorn and laughter. But here he found himself sitting
with the letter in his hand and weaving stories as to its contents.

First, now, it might be a notice that Frank had received the badge of
the Legion of Honour. No, no, that was too big, and he laughed aloud at
his own folly, wondering the next minute, with half shame, why he
laughed, for did he, after all, believe anything was too big for that
brother of his? Well, let him begin, anyway, away down. Let him say, for
instance, that the letter told of the completion and sale of a great
picture. Frank had sold small ones. He would be glad of this, for his
brother had written him several times of things that were a-doing, but
not yet of anything that was done. Or, better yet, let the letter say
that some picture, long finished, but of which the artist's pride and
anxiety had forbidden him to speak, had made a glowing success, the
success it deserved. This sounded well, and seemed not at all beyond the
bounds of possibility. It was an alluring vision. He saw the picture
already. It was a scene from life, true in detail to the point of very
minuteness, and yet with something spiritual in it that lifted it above
the mere copy of the commonplace. At the Salon it would be hung on the
line, and people would stand before it admiring its workmanship and
asking who the artist was. He drew on his memory of old reading. In his
mind's eye he saw Frank, unconscious of his own power or too modest to
admit it, stand unknown among the crowds around his picture waiting for
and dreading their criticisms. He saw the light leap to his eyes as he
heard their words of praise. He saw the straightening of his narrow
shoulders when he was forced to admit that he was the painter of the
work. Then the windows of Paris were filled with his portraits. The
papers were full of his praise, and brave men and fair women met
together to do him homage. Fair women, yes, and Frank would look upon
them all and see reflected in them but a tithe of the glory of one
woman, and that woman Claire Lessing. He roused himself and laughed
again as he tapped the magic envelope.

"My fancies go on and conquer the world for my brother," he muttered.
"He will follow their flight one day and do it himself."

The letter drew his eyes back to it. It seemed to invite him, to beg him
even. "No, I