“Mr. Gregory is here again?” “He comes and goes. I think I ought to tell you that he is preparing to press his claim against Colonel Craighill in that Sand Creek matter. I have urged him not to, but he is old and ill and I sometimes think his mind is unsettled. I ought to take him away. As long as I’m here he has an excuse for coming. I ought to give up my work, and take him back home--to our own home at Denbeigh.” “It’s an unfortunate matter--the whole business. My father’s interest in the Sand Creek Company is very small. He has nothing to do with the management of the company.” “That’s where the trouble comes in. It’s not the business side of it any more; it’s the feeling grandfather has that it was a personal matter between him and your father. He insists on looking at it that way.” “I think there’s a real claim. I will see what I can do with the officers of the company. It will be no trouble whatever,” he said, roused at the prospect of serving her. “Please do not! I don’t think that would satisfy grandfather at all. He wants the offer of a settlement to come from Colonel Craighill. I appreciate your kind feeling about it, but please do nothing; it would not help.” A Russian woman with a shawl wrapped round her head entered the car dragging a child of three by the hand. The little boy, planted on a seat directly opposite Jean, fixed his great, wondering eyes upon her. “The poor little dear,” she murmured; “I’ve been wanting just that type, but now it doesn’t seem quite fair to try to catch him.” She drew from the pocket of her long coat a small memorandum book and a lead-pencil stub and began sketching. The mother stared and frowned, not quite understanding, but Jean was all intent on the white, wistful face opposite, and Wayne, watching her, marked her earnestness, her complete absorption. She had snatched off her gloves in her haste and he picked them up and unconsciously smoothed them as he watched her hand fly over the paper. The lurching car did not trouble her; she finished one sketch and began another, tearing the first sheet from the pad and thrusting it into her pocket. Finally, she held this second attempt up and inspected it, turning it so that Wayne might see. It was his first glimpse of any of her work and he was amazed at her cleverness; her few bold strokes had brought the sad little face to paper; the folded baby hands were there, with pathos in their tiny clasp. Jean thrust it away in her coat and crossed the aisle to speak to the mother, who supplemented her scant English with smiles of appreciation as the stranger praised her child. A little later as the mother left the car Wayne dropped a silver dollar into the baby’s hand. “You must always pay a model for sitting. What are you going to do with the sketch?” “Oh, I have use for it. Maybe you will see it again some day.”