and your money to relieve his mind for the time of anxiety. When he becomes famous, as he is sure to be, he will return it to you with interest.' That was the sort of talk, and it occurred about every day. Nellie would hear it and add her voice, and we would talk it over in the garden. "One day he came down himself. The garden was up the hill behind the Schweitzerhoff--you remember it--in one of those smaller hotels--Lucerne was crowded. "'Let me see what you two are doing,' he said, with a sort of police-officer air. "I turned the easel toward him. The sketch was about as you see it--all except the signature and the word 'Lucerne'--that I added afterward. "'How long have you been at this?' "'About two weeks,' I said. I thought I'd give it its full time, so as to prove to him how carefully it had been painted. "'Two weeks, eh?' he repeated slowly. 'Done anything else?' "'No.' "'What's it worth?' "'Well, it's only a study, sir.' "'Well, but what's it worth?' "I thought for a moment, and then, knowing how he valued everything by his own standard, said: "'I should think, perhaps, fifty dollars, when it's finished.' "'That's at the rate of twenty-five dollars a week, isn't it? A little over three dollars a day. I earned more than that, young man, when I was younger than you, and I was making something that was _sold_ before I turned a hand to it. You've got to shop your things around till you sell 'em. Come into the house, Nellie, I want to speak to you.' "Brutal, wasn't it? I have hated his kind ever since. Money! Money! Money! You'd think the only thing in life was the accumulation of dollars. Flowers bloom, mists curl up mountain sides, brooks laugh in the sunlight, birds sing, and children romp and play. There is poverty and suffering and death; there are stricken hearts needing help; kind words to speak; famishing minds to educate; there is art, and science, and music--Nothing counts. Money! Money! Money! I'm sick of it!" "And that ended it with the girl?" I asked, without moving my head from my hand. "Yes, practically. She went to Paris and I went back to Munich. I felt as if my heart had been torn out of me; like a plant twisted up by the roots. The letters came--first every day, then once or twice a week, then at long intervals. You won't believe it, old man, but do you know that wound never healed for years; hasn't yet, parts of it. Shams, flaunted wealth, society--all irritate it, and me. It seemed so cruel, so damned stupid. What counts but love, I would say to myself over and over again. If I had a million dollars, what better off would I be? If we were both on a desert island without a cent we could be happy together, and if we had a million apiece and didn't love each other we would be miserable. Quixotic, I know, indefensible, out of date with modern methods, but I'd give my career if more of that sort of doctrine saturated the air we breathe." "You saw her again?"