nant.

"I thought you said something about your friend Marlitt--"

"I never saw Marlitt; I only know his work."

"Oh," said Calvert, with a peculiar smile, "you only know his work!"

"That is all. Who is Marlitt?"

"The last of an old New York family; reduced circumstances, proud,
incompetent, unsuccessful. Why does the artist who signs 'Marlitt'
interest you?"

"This is why," said Tennant, and drew a letter from his pocket. "Do you
mind listening?"

"Go on," said Calvert, with a wry face. And Tennant began:

"'DEAR MR. TENNANT,--Just a few words to express my keenest
interest and delight in the work you are doing--not only the
color work, but the pen-and-ink. You know that the public has
made you their idol, but I thought you might care to know what
the unsuccessful in your own profession think. You have already
taught us so much; you are, week by week, raising the standard
so high; and you are doing so much for me, that I venture to
thank you and wish you still greater happiness and
success. MARLITT.'"

Calvert looked up. "Is that all?"

"That is all. There is neither date nor address on the note. I wrote to
Marlitt care of your office. Your office forwarded it, I see, but the
post-office returned it to me to-day.... What has become of Marlitt?"

Calvert touched the elevator-bell again. "If I knew," he said, "I'd find
a place for--Marlitt."

Tennant's face lighted. Calvert, scowling, avoided his eyes.

"I want you to understand," he said, peevishly, "that there is no
sentiment in this matter."

"I understand," said Tennant.

"You think you do," sneered Calvert, stepping into the elevator. The
door slammed; the cage descended; the fat, pink countenance of Calvert,
distorted into a furious sneer, slowly sank out of sight.

II

Tennant entered his studio and closed the door. In the mellow light the
smile faded from his face. Perhaps he was thinking of the unsuccessful,
from whose crowded ranks he had risen--comrades preordained to
mediocrity, foredoomed to failure--industrious, hopeful, brave young
fellows, who must live their lives to learn the most terrible of all
lessons--that bravery alone wins no battles.

"What luck I have had!" he said, aloud, to himself, walking over to the
table and seating himself before the drawing. For an hour he studied it;
touched it here and there, caressing outlines, swinging masses into
vig