ave him provided for. Fan
doesn't even know his address (the more shame to her), but I'll find
him. If ye're tired and would rather go home, I'll go on alone."

"Oh no, you mustn't do that!" she exclaimed instantly, feeling the
sincerity of his desire to please her. "I'll go, but we mustn't stay
long." And she took up the direction of his life again. The mood of the
night had passed away, leaving only a clearer perception of his growing
age and helplessness.

"You must let Dr. Brent examine you," she said, a little later. "He
don't think your lameness is caused by your wound. He says you're out of
condition."

He looked at her with shadowed face and sorrowful eyes. "I'm only a poor
old skate, wind-broken and lazy. Ye have the right to cut me loose any
time."

"You mustn't talk like that," she said, sharply. "When I want to cut
loose I'll let you know."

"I hold ye to that," he answered, with intent look.

CHAPTER XVII

BERTHA BECOMES A PATRON OF ART

Bertha, deeply engrossed in the conceptions called up by this visit, did
not feel like calling upon the Mosses, even though they were almost next
door. She was troubled, too, with a feeling of helplessness in the use
of a pen. She wanted to write to Fordyce, but was afraid to do so,
knowing that a letter would disclose her ignorance of polite forms; but
this, instead of discouraging her, roused her to a determination to
learn. This was the saving clause in her character. She acknowledged
shortcomings, but not defeats. Here again she was of the spirit that
lifts the self-made man.

The Congdons had been most generous of letters of introduction, and in
addition to those to Mrs. Brent and the Mosses, Bertha was in possession
of two or three envelopes addressed to people in New York City,
presumably artists also, as they bore the names of certain studios. The
note to Moss was unaffected and simple in itself, quite innocent of any
qualification, but the letter which had privately preceded it was in the
true Congdon vein, and Moss, like Mrs. Brent, did not delay his call.
His card was in the Haney box when they returned. "Sorry to miss you.
Come into my studio at five if you can," he had pencilled on the back.

"Your artistic bunch," Congdon had written, "won't mind meeting one of
the most successful and picturesque of our gamblers, Marshall Haney,
especially as the walls of his big house are bare and his wife is
pretty. They are ripping types, old man; not i