tions. What became of that pretty girl in the creamery of
the Rue de l'Ombre who used to help us over the lean days?"

"Whom you christened Our Lady of the Sparrows?" "Yes, yes. You know I
sent her the silk dress and the earrings I promised her."

Herkimer began to speak of one thing and another, of Bennett, who had
gone dramatically to the Transvaal; of Le Gage, who was now in the
forefront of the younger group of landscapists; of the old types that
still came faithfully to the Cafe des Lilacs,--the old chess-players,
the fat proprietor, with his fat wife and three fat children who dined
there regularly every Sunday,--of the new revolutionary ideas among the
younger men that were beginning to assert themselves.

"Let's sit down," said Rantoul, as though suffocating.

They placed themselves in wicker easy-chairs, under the heavy-scented
rose cupola, disdaining the coffee that waited on a table. From where
they were a red-tiled walk, with flower beds nodding in enchanted sleep,
ran to the veranda. The porch windows were open, and in the golden
lamplight Herkimer saw the figure of Tina Glover bent intently over an
embroidery, drawing her needle with uneven stitches, her head seeming
inclined to catch the faintest sound. The waiting, nervous pose, the
slender figure on guard, brought to him a strange, almost uncanny
sensation of mystery, and feeling the sudden change in the mood of the
man at his side, he gazed at the figure of the wife and said to himself:

[Illustration: Our Lady of the Sparrows]

"I'd give a good deal to know what's passing through that little head.
What is she afraid of?"

"You're surprised to find me as I am," said Rantoul, abruptly breaking
the silence.

"Yes."

"You can't understand it?"

"When did you give up painting?" said Herkimer, shortly, with a sure
feeling that the hour of confidences had come.

"Seven years ago."

"Why in God's name did you do it?" said Herkimer, flinging away his
cigar angrily. "You weren't just any one--Tom, Dick, or Harry. You had
something to say, man. Listen. I know what I'm talking about,--I've seen
the whole procession in the last ten years,--you were one in a thousand.
You were a creator. You had ideas; you were meant to be a leader, to
head a movement. You had more downright savage power, undeveloped, but
tugging at the chain, than any man I've known. Why did you do it?"

"I had almost forgotten," said Rantoul, slowly. "Are you sure?"

"Am I sure?"