all finish it," replied Duerer, without looking up.

The other moved restlessly about. "Well ... I must go. Good-by, Duerer."
He came and stood by the easel, holding out his hand.

The artist rose, the warm smile on his lips bathing his face. "Good-by,
my friend." He held out his hand frankly.

Pirkheimer caught it in his. "We're friends?" he said.

"Always."

"And you will never want--if I can help you."

"Never!" The tone was hearty and proud.

Pirkheimer turned away with a look of contentment. "I shall hold you to
it," he said. "It is a promise."

"I shall hold you to it," laughed Duerer.

When the door had closed, he stood looking down at the picture. He moved
once or twice across the room. Then he stopped before a little brazier,
looking at it hesitatingly. He bent over and lighted the coals in the
basin. He blew them with a tiny bellows till they glowed. Then he placed
a pan above them and threw into it lumps of brownish stuff. When the
mixture was melted, he carried it across to the easel and dipped a large
brush into it thoughtfully. He drew it across the canvas. The track
behind it glowed and deepened in the dim light. Slowly the picture
mellowed under it. A look of sweet satisfaction hovered about the
artist's lips as he worked. The liquid in the pan lessened and his brush
moved more slowly. The mixture had deepened in tint and thickened.
Wherever the brush rested a deep, luminous color sprang to meet it. It
moved swiftly across the monogram--and paused. The artist peered forward
uncertainly. The letters lay erased in the dim light. With another
stroke of the brush--and another--they were gone forever.

The smile of satisfaction deepened on his lips. It was not conceit, nor
humility, nor pride. One could not have named the sweetness that hovered
in it--hauntingly.

He laid down the brush with a quick breath and sat gazing at the
picture. It returned the gentle, inevitable look. He raised a finger to
the portrait, speaking softly. "It is Albrecht Duerer--his work," he said
under his breath. "None but a fool can mistake it. It shall speak for
him forever."

II

For a quarter of a century the picture had rested, face to the wall, on
the floor of the small, dark studio. Pirkheimer had demanded his
treasure--sometimes with jests, and sometimes with threats. But the
picture had remained unmoved against the wall.

Journeys to Italy and to the Netherlands had intervened. Pirkheimer's
velvet p