or speculate, or play
cards, you're not clever enough. You've got blind rashness, and so you
think you're bold. And Di--oh, you idiot! And on a salary of a thousand
dollars a year!"

"I suppose Di would help me; but I couldn't explain." The weak face
puckered, a lifeless kind of tear gathered in the ox-like eyes.

"Yes, she probably would help you. She'd probably give you all she's saved
to go to Europe with and study, saved from her pictures sold at twenty per
cent. of their value; and she'd mortgage the little income she's got to
keep her brother out of jail. Of course she would, and of course you ought
to be ashamed of yourself for thinking of it." Rawley lighted his cigar
and smoked fiercely.

"It would be better for her than my going to jail," stubbornly replied the
other. "But I don't want to tell her, or to ask her for money. That's why
I've come to you. You needn't be so hard, Flood; you've not been a saint;
and Di knows it."

Rawley took the cheroot from his mouth, threw back his head, and laughed
mirthlessly, ironically. Then suddenly he stopped and looked round the
room till his eyes rested on a portrait-drawing which hung on the wall
opposite the window, through which the sun poured. It was the face of a
girl with beautiful bronzed hair, and full, fine, beautifully modelled
face, with brown eyes deep and brooding, which seemed to have time and
space behind them--not before them. The lips were delicate and full, and
had the look suggesting a smile which the inward thought has stayed. It
was like one of the Titian women--like a Titian that hangs on the wall of
the Gallery at Munich. The head and neck, the whole personality, had an
air of distinction and destiny. The drawing had been done by a wandering
duchess who had seen the girl sketching in the foothills when on a visit
to that "Wild West" which has such power to refine and inspire minds not
superior to Nature. Its replica was carried to a castle in Scotland. It
had been the gift of Diana Welldon on a certain day not long ago, when
Flood Rawley had made a pledge to her, which was as vital to him and to
his future as two thousand dollars were vital to Dan Welldon now.

"You've not been a saint, and Di knows it," repeated the weak brother of a
girl whose fame belonged to the West; whose name was a signal for cheerful
looks; whose buoyant humor and impartial friendliness gained her
innumerable friends; and whose talent, understood by few, gave her a
cert