s he read it, and wiped tears of mirth from his
eyes.

So it befell that Ewing forsook the beaten road of minor achievement
that winter, and labored toward the far, high peaks. In his own phrase,
the trail was rough and blind. Preceding climbers had not been
thoughtful to "blaze" it. But he grudged no effort while he had the
little man's applause. And this was not lacking, though it was discreet
applause, promoting no slothful content.

It was Ewing who suggested that he paint under the criticism of
Sydenham. The little man looked at him in doubt, seeming to suspect a
jesting insincerity, then burst into hearty, hand-clapping laughter,
crying, "Splendid! An inspiration, indeed! On my word, I hadn't thought
of anything half so brilliant."

And Ewing began to paint; to paint like Sydenham, if he might--cloud
studies, bits of street perspective, stretches of river, a realistic
view of the roofs from his window, with their water butts, chimney pots,
and clothes lines. Baldwin looked in once, and carried a word below to
the men who sold things: the word "Awful!" He also ventured a friendly
remonstrance to Ewing. "If you're going to paint, for God's sake go to
some man who knows how!"

Ewing referred to Teevan's conviction that Sydenham was the ideal master
for him, and to the attested fact that Teevan knew painting and
painters.

"Then I don't understand Teevan," was Baldwin's puzzled response.

"But I'm coming on--Teevan says so."

Baldwin ventured another look at the canvas in hand and fled below.

Teevan was watchful and permitted few chances for meddling of this sort.
He contrived to be with Ewing most of the time when Sydenham was not.
And Ewing never tired of Sydenham. If they walked the streets together
the old man would direct his eye to some unnoticed felicity of color on
the walls that shut them in, to bits of enchanting perspective, to
subtle plays of light and shade in unpromising spots. Or if they sat
alone at night the painter told of color in the world beyond the sea;
how from the top of Mont Blanc the stars are seen at midday, points of
vivid light in a dark blue-violet field; of the purple nights of the
desert, the stars but an arrowshot above; of the cold, pale silvers of
dawn in the desert, and the heated gold and scarlet of evening; of the
impossible blue of the bay of Naples. His face glowed to such
youthfulness at these times that Ewing would forget his futile years
until the sigh came.

"Bu