cating the unusual
condition of his deforming hair, "with a little brush."

"She?" the boy asked, with significant emphasis.

"No," Mr. Poddle sighed. "Hush! Not She--just her."

By this the boy knew that the Mexican Sword Swallower had not
relented--but that his mother had been kind.

"She left that there little brush somewheres," Mr. Poddle continued,
with an effort to lift his head, but failing to do more than roll his
glazed eyes. "There was a little handkerchief with it. Can't you find
'em, Richard? I wish you could. They make me--more comfortable. Oh,
I'm glad you got 'em! I feel easier--this way. She said you'd stay
with me--to the last. She said, Richard, that maybe you'd keep the
hair away from my eyes, and the sweat from rollin' in. For I'm easier
that way; and I want to _see_," he moaned, "to the last!"

The boy pressed his hand.

"I'm tired of the hair," Mr. Poddle sighed. "I used to be proud of it;
but I'm tired of it--now. It's been admired, Richard; it's been
applauded. Locks of it has been requested by the Fair; and the Strong
has wished they was me. But, Richard, celebrities sits on a lonely
eminence. And I _been_ lonely, God knows! though I kept a smilin'
face.... I'm tired of the hair--tired of fame. It all looks
different--when you git sight of the Common Leveller. 'Tired of His
Talent.' Since I been lyin' here, Richard, sick and alone, I been
thinkin' that talent wasn't nothin' much after all. I been wishin',
Richard--wishin'!"

The Dog-faced Man paused for breath.

"I been wishin'," he gasped, "that I wasn't a phenomonen--but only a
man!"

The sunlight began to creep towards Mr. Poddle's bed--a broad, yellow
beam, stretching into the blue spaces without: lying like a golden
pathway before him.

"Richard," said Mr. Poddle, "I'm goin' to die."

The boy began to cry.

"Don't cry!" Mr. Poddle pleaded. "I ain't afraid. Hear me, Richard?
I ain't afraid."

"No, no!"

"I'm glad to die. 'Death the Dog-faced Man's Best Friend.' I'm glad!
Lyin' here, I seen the truth. It's only when a man looks back that he
finds out what he's missed--only when he looks back, from the end of
the path, that he sees the flowers he might have plucked by the way....
Lyin' here, I been lookin' back--far back. And my eyes is opened. Now
I see--now I know! I have been travellin' a road where the flowers
grows thick. But God made me so I couldn't pick 'em. It's love,
Richard, that