"Did the sister go?" There was a note of alarm in Dalny's voice. "No, she is upstairs. That's why I came. I don't think she has much to eat. She won't let me in. Maybe you can get her to talk to you; she likes you--she told me so." Dalny laid down his palette, tiptoed hurriedly up the stairs and knocked gently. There was no response. Then he knocked again, this time much louder, and waited. He heard the rustling of a skirt, but there was no other sound. "It's Mr. Dalny, madam," he said in the kindest, most sympathetic voice that ever came out of his throat. The door opened softly, and her face peered through the crack. Tears were in her eyes--old and new tears--following one another down her furrowed cheeks. "He is gone away; they took him last night, Mr. Dalny." Her voice broke, but she still kept the edge of the door in her trembling hand. "Yes; I have just heard about it. Let me come in, please; I want to help you. You are all alone." Her grasp slackened, and Dalny stepped in. The room was in some confusion. The bed where her brother had been ill was still in disorder, the screen that had concealed it pushed to one side. On a table by his easel were the remains of a meal. The masterpiece still stared out from its place. The sister walked to a lounge and sat down. "Tell me the truth," Dalny said, seating himself beside her. "Have you any money?" "No; our letter has not come." "What do you expect to do?" "I must sell something." "Let me lend you some money. I have plenty, for I shall get paid for my picture to-morrow; then you can pay it back when yours comes." "Oh, you are so kind, but we must sell something of our own. We owe a large sum; the rent is two months due, and there are other things, and Adolphe must have some comforts. No, I am not offended, but Adolphe would be if he knew." Dalny looked into space for a moment, and asked, thoughtfully, "How much do you owe?" "Oh, a great deal," she answered, simply. "What things will you sell?" At least he could help her in this. The faded old lady looked up at Dalny and pointed to the masterpiece. "It breaks our heart to send it away, but there is nothing else to do. It will bring, too, a great price; nothing else we possess will bring as much. Then we will have no more poverty, and someone may buy it who will love it, and so my brother will get his reward." Dalny swept his eye around. The furniture was of the shabbiest; pictures and sketches tacked to the wall, but experiments in "Old Sunshine's" pet theories. Nothing else would bring anything. And the masterpiece! That, he knew, would not bring the cost of its frame. "Where will you send it to be sold--to an art dealer?" Dalny asked. He could speak a good word for it, perhaps, if it should be sent to some dealer he knew.