“He's no use for his master, any more,” said Chip, with a hurt laugh. “A woman always does play the--mischief, somehow. I wonder why? They look innocent enough.” “Wait till your turn comes, and perhaps you'll learn why,” retorted she. Chip, knowing that his turn had come, and come to tarry, found nothing to say. “Beside,” continued the Little Doctor, “Silver didn't want me so much--it was the sugar. I hope you aren't jealous of me, because I know his heart is big enough to hold us both.” She stayed a long half hour, and was so gay that it seemed like old times to listen to her laugh and watch her dimples while she talked. Chip forgot that he had a quarrel with fate, and he also forgot Dr. Cecil Granthum, of Gilroy, Ohio--until Slim rode up and handed the Little Doctor a letter addressed in that bold, up-and-down writing that Chip considered a little the ugliest specimen of chirography he had ever seen in his life. “It's from Cecil,” said the Little Doctor, simply and unnecessarily, and led Silver back down the hill. Chip, gazing at that tiresome bluff across the coulee, renewed his quarrel with fate. CHAPTER XV. -- The Spoils of Victory. “I wish, while I'm gone, you'd paint me another picture. Will you, PLEASE?” When a girl has big, gray eyes that half convince you they are not gray at all, but brown, or blue, at times, and a way of using them that makes a fellow heady, like champagne, and a couple of dimples that will dodge into her cheeks just when a fellow is least prepared to resist them--why, what can a fellow do but knuckle under and say yes, especially when she lets her head tip to one side a little and says “please” like that? Chip tried not to look at her, but he couldn't help himself very well while she stood directly in front of him. He compromised weakly instead of refusing point-blank, as he told himself he wanted to do. “I don't know--maybe I can't, again.” “Maybe you can, though. Here's an eighteen by twenty-four canvas, and here are all the paints I have in the house, and the brushes. I'll expect to see something worth while, when I return.” “Well, but if I can't--” “Look here. Straight in the eye, if you please! Now, will you TRY?” Chip, looking into her eyes that were laughing, but with a certain earnestness behind the laugh, threw up his hands--mentally, you know. “Yes, I'll try. How long are you going to be gone?” “Oh, perhaps a week,” she said, lightly, and Chip's heart went heavy. “You may paint any kind of picture you like, but I'd rather you did something like 'The Last Stand'--only better. And put your brand, as you call it, in one corner.” “You won't sell it, will you?” The words slipped out before he knew. “No--no, I won't sell it, for it won't be mine. It's for yourself this time.” “Then there won't be any picture,” said Chip, shortly. “Oh, yes, there will,” smiled the Little Doctor, sweetly, and went away before he could contradict her.