n's
face.

The painter shook his head. "I don't know--not yet--you must leave it
with me. It's yours. You shall have it--when it's done."

"It's done now," said the other brusquely. "Here--sign." He picked up a
brush, and, dipping it into a soft color on the palette, handed it to
the painter.

He took it doubtfully between his fingers, his eyes on the face. Slowly
his hand moved toward the canvas. It traced rapidly, below the flowing
locks, a huge, uncouth A; then, more slowly, within the sprawling legs
of the A, a shadowy D; and finally, at the top, above them both, in tiny
figures, a date--1503. The brush dropped from his fingers, and he
stepped back with a little sigh.

His companion reached out his hand. "That's all right," he said. "I'll
take it."

The artist interposed a hand. "Not yet," he said.

"It's mine," replied the other. "You said it."

"Yes, I said it--not yet."

The other yielded with a satisfied smile. His hand strayed to the purse
hanging at his side. "What's to pay? Tell me."

The artist shook his head. "I would not sell it--not even to you," he
said. His eyes were on the canvas.

"But it's mine!"

"It's yours--for friendship's sake."

The young man nodded contentedly. Then a thought struck across his face.
"You'll tell Agnes that?" he said quickly.

"Ay, I'll tell Agnes--that it's yours. But not what you paid for it,"
added the painter thoughtfully.

"No, no, don't tell her that." The young man spoke quickly. His tone was
half jesting, half earnest. He stood looking at the two faces, glancing
from one to the other with a look of baffled resentment. "A living
shame!" he muttered under his breath.

The artist looked up quickly. "What?"

"Nothing." The young man moved vaguely about the room. "I wish to God,
Duerer, you had a free hand!" he broke out.

The artist glanced inquiry. He held up his hand, moving the supple
fingers with a little gesture of pride. "Isn't it?" he demanded,
smiling.

The young man shook his head. His round face retained its look of
dissent. "Marriage--for a man like you! Two hundred florins--for dowry!"
He laughed scornfully.

His companion's face flushed. A swift look came into the eyes.

The other held out a deprecating hand. "I didn't mean it," he said.
"Don't be angry."

The flush faded. The artist turned to the easel, taking up a brush, as
if to seek in work a vent for his disturbed thought.

"You'll spoil it!" said Pirkheimer quickly.

"I sh