He indicated a portrait with a nod. It was in an earlier, a smoother, and less characteristic style. To the man who was no artist it was a very beautiful painting of a very beautiful girl. "My dead wife," said the artist, as Salt stood in silent admiration. "I have buried her this afternoon." The man who had never known or even seen her felt a stab as he looked up at the lovely, smiling face. "Well," said the painter roughly, "why don't you say how sorry you are, or some platitude of that sort?" Salt turned away, to leave the other alone meeting the sweet eyes. "Because I cannot say how sorry I am," he replied with gentle pity. "Oh, my beloved!" he heard the whisper. "Not long, not long." "You are packing," Salt continued a minute later. "Let me help you--with some." A heap of straw and shavings littered the floor; boxes and cases stood ready at hand. "No," replied the man, looking moodily at his preparations. "I have changed my mind. I have to go on a journey to-night, but I shall leave this place as it is and secure the doors and windows instead." He brought tools, and together they nailed across the cottage windows the stout old-fashioned shutters that secured them. Neither spoke much. "Come," said the artist, when the melancholy work was complete; "the storm is over. Our roads lie together for a little way." He locked the outer door, and stood lingering reluctantly with his hand upon the key. "A moment," he said, unlocking the door again, and entering. "Only a moment. Wait for me at the gate." Salt waited as he was directed beside a dripping linden. The storm had indeed passed over, but the sky was low and grey. Little rivulets meandered in changing currents down the garden path; from beneath the narrow lane came the continuous sobbing rush of some unseen swollen water-course. The hand of despair lay heavy across the scene; it seemed as though Nature had wept herself out, but was uncomforted. Salt pictured the lonely man standing before the soulless, smiling creation of his own hand. The door opened, the lock again creaked mournfully as its rusty bolt was driven home, and without a backward glance the artist came slowly down the walk, twisting the clumsy key aimlessly upon his finger. He stopped at a tangled patch where the anemone struggled vainly among the choking bindweed, and the hyacinths and lupines had been beaten down to earth. "Her garden!" he said aloud, and a spasm crossed his face. "But now how overgrown." On a thought he dropped the key gently among the luxuriant growth and turned away. "I will tell you why my wife died," said the artist suddenly, after they had passed round a bend of the road that hid the cottage from their sight. "It should point a moral, and it will not take long." "It may plead a cause," replied Salt. "Ah!" exclaimed his companion, looking at him sharply. "Who are you, then?" "You do not know me, but you may know my business. I am Salt of the Unity League."