d he never found it?" she asked.

Unconsciously one of Sidwell's hands made a downward motion of
deprecation. "He did not. We made the circuit of the earth together in
pursuit of it--but all was useless. It seemed as though the more he
searched the more he was baffled in his quest."

For a moment the girl made no reply, but in her lap her hands clasped
tighter and tighter. A thought that made her finger-tips tingle was
taking form in her mind. A dim comprehension of the nature of this man
had first suggested it; the fact that the canvas was unsigned had helped
give it form. The speaker's last words, his even tone of voice, had not
passed unnoticed. She turned to the canvas, searched the skilfully
concealed outlines of the tattered figure with the upturned eyes. The
clasped hands grew white with the tension.

"I didn't know before you were an artist as well as a writer," she said
evenly.

Sidwell turned quickly. The girl could feel his look. "I fear," he said,
"I fail to grasp your meaning. You think--"

Florence met the speaker's look steadily. "I don't think," she said, "I
know. You painted the picture, Mr. Sidwell. That man there on the
mountain-side is you!"

Her companion hesitated. His face darkened; his lips opened to speak and
closed again.

The girl continued watching him with steady look. "I can hardly believe
it," she said absently. "It seems impossible."

Sidwell forced a smile. "Impossible? What? That I should paint a daub
like that?"

The girl's tense hands relaxed wearily.

"No, not that you paint, but that the man there--the one finding
happiness unattainable--should be you."

The lids dropped just a shade over Sidwell's black eyes. "And why, if
you please, should it be more remarkable that I am unhappy than
another?"

This time Florence took him up quickly. "Because," she answered, "you
seem to have everything one can think of that is needed to make a human
being happy--wealth, position, health, ability--all the prizes other
people work their lives out for or die for." Again the voice dropped. "I
can't understand it." She was silent a moment. "I can't understand it,"
she repeated.

From the girl's face the man's eyes passed to the canvas, and rested
there. "Yes," he said slowly, "I suppose it is difficult, almost
impossible, for you to realize why I am--as I am. You have never had the
personal experience--and we only understand what we have felt. The
trouble with me is that I have exper