Throngs surround the painter, who strains his artistic heart. A voice startles him, as the last touches are being laid on: "Young man, will you sell this here picture?" "That depends," rejoins Armand. His use of the vernacular charms the stranger. "Have you set a price?" cries the visitor, in rough Western English. "I have not as yet," the copyist answers. He surveys the speaker, a man of fifty years, whose dress and manner speak of prosperity in efflorescent form. The diamond pin, huge watch-chain, rich jewelled buttons, and gold-headed cane, prove him an American Croesus. "Well, when it's done, you bring it to my hotel. Everyone knows me. I will give you what you want for it. It's way up; better than the original," says the Argonaut, with a leer at its loveliness. He drops his card on the moist canvas. The nettled artist reads, {{Colonel Joseph Woods, California. Grand Hotel.}} on the imposing pasteboard. The good-humored Woods nods. "Yes sir, that's me. Every one in London, Paris, and New York, knows Joe Woods. "Good at the bank," he chuckles. "What's your name?" he says abruptly. Armand rises bowing, and handing his card to the stranger: "Armand Valois." Woods whistles a resounding call. The "flaneurs" start in astonishment. "Say; you speak English. By heavens! you look like him. Did you ever know a Colonel Valois, of California?" He gazes at the boy eagerly. "I never met him, sir, but he was the last of my family. He was killed in the Southern war." "Look here, young man, you pack up them there paint-brushes, and send that picture down to my rooms. You've got to dine with me to-night, my boy. I'll give you a dinner to open your eyes." The painter really opens his eyes in amazement. "You knew my relative in California?" "We dug this gold together," the stranger almost shouts, as he taps his huge watch-chain. "We were old pardners," he says, with a moistened eye. There was a huskiness in the man's voice; not born of the mellow cognac he loved. No; Joe Woods was far away then, in the days of his sturdy youth. He was swinging the pick once more on the bars of the American River, and listening to its music rippling along under the giant pines of California. The young painter's form brought back to "Honest Joe" the unreturning brave, the chum of his happiest days. Armand murmurs, "Are you sure you wish this picture?" "Dead sure, young man. You let me run this thing. Now, I won't take 'no.' You just get a carriage, and get this all down to my hotel. You can finish it there. I've got to go down to my bank, and you be there to meet me. You'll have a good dinner; you bet you will. God! what a man Valois was. Dead and gone, poor fellow! "Now, I'm off! don't you linger now." He strides to his carriage, followed by a crowd of "valets de place." All know Joe Woods, the big-souled mining magnate. He always leaves a golden trail. Armand imagines the fairy of good luck has set him dreaming. No; it is all true.