eighteen months, and, when that interval ended, he seemed just on the verge of grasping his work properly. He assured himself often and solemnly that his creed was unchanged; his loyalty untainted; and the fact that it was necessary to tell himself proved that he was being weaned from his traditions. And so, though he often longed for home, he did not return. And then reason would rise up and confound him. Could he paint pictures in the mountains? If he did, what would he do with them? If he went back to that hermit life, would he not vindicate his uncle's prophecy that he had merely unplaced himself? And, if he went back and discharged his promise, and then returned again to the new fascination, could he bring Sally with him into this life--Sally, whom he had scornfully told that a "gal didn't need no l'arnin'?" And the answer to all these questions was only that there was no answer. One day, Adrienne looked up from a sheaf of his very creditable landscape studies to inquire suddenly: "Samson, are you a rich man, or a poor one?" He laughed. "So rich," he told her, "that unless I can turn some of this stuff into money within a year or two, I shall have to go back to hoeing corn." She nodded gravely. "Hasn't it occurred to you," she demanded, "that in a way you are wasting your gifts? They were talking about you the other evening --several painters. They all said that you should be doing portraits." The Kentuckian smiled. His masters had been telling him the same thing. He had fallen in love with art through the appeal of the skies and hills. He had followed its call at the proselyting of George Lescott, who painted only landscape. Portraiture seemed a less-artistic form of expression. He said so. "That may all be very true," she conceded, "but you can go on with your landscapes, and let your portraits pay the way. With your entrée, you could soon have a very enviable _clientèle_." "'So she showed me the way, to promotion and pay, And I learned about women from her,'" quoted Samson with a laugh. "And," she added, "since I am very vain and moderately rich, I hereby commission you to paint me, just as soon as you learn how." Farbish had simply dropped out. Bit by bit, the truth of the conspiracy had leaked, and he knew that his usefulness was ended, and that well-lined pocketbooks would no longer open to his profligate demands. The bravo and plotter whose measure has been taken is a broken reed. Farbish made no farewells. He had come from nowhere and his going was like his coming. * * * * *