space behind them--not before them. The lips were delicate and full, and
had the look suggesting a smile which the inward thought has stayed. It
was like one of the Titian women--like a Titian that hangs on the wall of
the Gallery at Munich. The head and neck, the whole personality, had an
air of distinction and destiny. The drawing had been done by a wandering
duchess who had seen the girl sketching in the foothills, when on a visit
to that "Wild West" which has such power to refine and inspire minds not
superior to Nature. Its replica was carried to a castle in Scotland.
It had been the gift of Diana Welldon on a certain day not long ago, when
Flood Rawley had made a pledge to her, which was as vital to him and to
his future as two thousand dollars were vital to Dan Welldon now.

"You've not been a saint, and Di knows it," repeated the weak brother of
a girl whose fame belonged to the West; whose name was a signal for
cheerful looks; whose buoyant humour and impartial friendliness gained
her innumerable friends; and whose talent, understood by few, gave her a
certain protection, lifting her a little away from the outwardly crude
and provincial life around her.

When Rawley spoke, it was with quiet deliberation, and even gentleness.
"I haven't been a saint, and she knows it, as you say, Dan; but the law
is on my side as yet, and it isn't on yours. There's the difference."

"You used to gamble yourself; you were pretty tough, and you oughtn't to
walk up my back with hobnailed boots."

"Yes, I gambled, Dan, and I drank, and I raised a dust out here. My
record was writ pretty big. But I didn't lay my hands on the ark of the
social covenant, whose inscription is, Thou shalt not steal; and that's
why I'm poor but proud, and no one's watching for me round the corner,