After the meal Cissie tore herself away reluctantly, and the three others went over the new play, the author explaining some of his ideas, and seeking to get the young actress interested in her part. Louisiana listened, but evidently her thoughts were far away. Farson was visibly disappointed. “I think Miss Delacourt must be tired after her journey and the early landing,” Brainard interposed in kindly fashion. “Of course—pardon me!” the young dramatist said, throwing down his manuscript. “Let me set you down at your hotel on the way to the theater.” “No, you are already late for the rehearsal. I will take Miss Delacourt home when the motor comes back. I have something to say to her.” Farson left with reluctance, after making an engagement for the morrow with the young actress. “And I’ll know my lines by that time,” she promised him. No sooner had the door closed upon the secretary than she leaped to her feet. “Now for the story! And may I see the picture again?” Brainard fetched the little water color and placed it in her hands. “As I told you,” he said, “it’s by way of being the story of my own life—at least, of the only part that counts as life!” “Yes?” she said expectantly. Looking over her shoulders, he pointed to a spot in the distant mountain background of the sketch. “In there is the site of the great Melody mine—” “Melody—what? Why, what do you mean?” the girl stammered in renewed excitement. “The Melody mine—that’s the name of the mine about which there is the litigation, you know. That’s where all the money for the theater came from. It’s the famous pot of gold—my Aladdin’s lamp—only it’s likely to change owners.” “But why did you call it Melody?” Louisiana demanded, with glistening eyes. “That’s all in the story, too,” laughed Brainard. “Then tell it to me—_all_!” She dropped the picture into her lap, and, holding her little hands tightly clasped, fastened her eyes on Brainard’s face, as if what he had to say was of momentous interest to her. But that, he reflected, somewhat flattered, was just Louisiana’s way. “Here goes, then, Miss Delacourt, for the story of my life, which explains that water-color sketch being in my possession!” And Brainard retold the tale of _his_ great adventure since he played the part of good Samaritan to the dying stranger. It took some time to tell the story, and he did not hurry. The motor came back and waited below, while he went into all the details of the story with which we are familiar.