he drew one very long breath, and the expression upon his
face softened.

"That man," he said, "has had a hard life, Miss Ferris. It is all
written in his face. When he was a little boy, he was the victim of a
mistake so atrocious, so wicked, that the blood in his body turned to
gall, and all his powers of loving turned to hatred. Instead of facing
disaster like a man, he turned from it, and fled--down--down--down, and
fell down--down--grappling with all that he could reach that was good or
beautiful, and dragging it down with him--to destruction--to the pit--to
hell on earth. And then he lived a long time, pampering all that was
base in him, prospering materially, recognizing no moral law. He was
contented with his choice--happy as a well-fed dog is happy in a warm
corner. And then the inevitable happened. An idea came to him, a dream
of peace and beauty, of well-doing and happiness. But that chance was
torture, since, if he was to live it, he must undo the evil that he had
done, unthink the thoughts that had been meat and drink to him, and he
must get back to where he was before he fell."

He paused, and extending his right forefinger pointed at the bust of
himself and exclaimed:

"That man--there--that you've made in my image--line for line--torture
for torture, must go on living in the hell which he has prepared with
his own perverted mind. He can never get back. It is too late--too
late--too late!"

His voice rose to a kind of restrained fury. The room shook with its
strong vibrations.

Then he turned to Barbara, smiled, all of a sudden, gayly, almost
genuinely, and said in a voice of humble gallantry:

"But I've done you a good turn. If you never proved it before, you're
proving these days that you are a heaven-born genius."

A harder-headed girl than Barbara must have been pleased and beguiled.
She blushed, and laughed. "I've only one thing to wish for," she said.

"What is that?"

"I wish," she said, "that you were the greatest art critic in the
world."

He leaned forward, and in a confidential whisper: "A secret," said he,
"between us two. I am."

Then they both laughed, and the beggar, not without reluctance, climbed
down from the platform. Swift and easy as were his motions, he appeared
to terrible disadvantage, and he knew it. So did Barbara, who a moment
before had been on the point of really liking him. She steeled herself
against the sudden disgust which she could not help feeling, and smil