He walked slowly up the street, seeing nothing of the busy life about him, turning over and over in his mind the bit of gossip which Mr. Round had repeated. Could it be true, he wondered. Suppose it were, what would it mean to him? It had been years since he had seen Betty Heywood; it was very probable that the girl whose image lived in his heart was very different from the reality. At any rate, it was absurd to suppose that she would have anything more than the faintest of remembrances of the boy she had befriended in years gone by. Shaking such thoughts away, at last, he considered for a moment where he should spend the afternoon. He decided in favour of the Art Museum, and boarding a car, started on the long, beautiful ride to Eden Park. The route carried him up one of the long inclines, which are a unique feature of Cincinnati’s street railway system. The city proper is built in the valley along the river, and is surrounded by hills two or three hundred feet in height, where the most exclusive residence sections are. These are reached by inclines, where the cars are hoisted and lowered by means of massive wire cables. As the car rose slowly up the incline, Cincinnati lay spread below him, a charming city, marred only by the haze of coal smoke which a too-indulgent city government made little effort to suppress. Half an hour later, he was at his destination and entered the museum, whose collection of paintings, statuary and other works of art is one of the most famous in the middle west. He spent a most enjoyable hour wandering from room to room, and was about ready to go, when, in one of the far galleries, he noticed a woman at work before an easel, and, strolling nearer, saw that she was making a copy of one of the larger paintings. He was about to turn away, fearing that he was intruding, when she glanced up and saw him. “Why, Allan West,” she cried, and started up, hand outstretched, and he saw that it was Betty Heywood. “It _is_ Allan West, isn’t it?” she asked, as he stood for an instant chained to the spot. “It certainly is,” he answered, clasping the welcoming hand. “But I didn’t expect to see you here.” “Nor I to see you,” she broke in. “What has a train dispatcher to do with picture galleries?” “Mighty little, I’m sorry to say. I didn’t know you were an artist!” “I’m not,” she said, laughing merrily. “I’m only a copyist. What do you think of it?” she added, with a gesture toward the picture on the easel. Allan gazed at it with unfeigned admiration, though to a more critical eye, its shortcomings would have been evident enough. “It’s fine,” he said. “It’s splendid! Where did you learn how?” Again she laughed, though her cheeks flushed a little at his praise. “I’ve been working at it for a long time,” she said. “But don’t deceive yourself—it isn’t a work of art—it’s merely a pot-boiler.” “A what?”