girl. Something about the face puzzled him. Where had he seen it? More
than a little of an artist, he began to reproduce the head on paper. He
put it in different poses; he added to it; he took away from it; he gave
it a child's face, preserving the one striking expression; he made it
that of a woman--of an elderly, grave woman. Why, what was this?
Barbara Golding! He would not spoil the development of the drama, of
which he now held the fluttering prologue, by any blunt treatment; he
would touch this and that nerve gently to see what past connection there
was between:

"These dim blown birds beneath an alien sky."

He mooned along in this fashion, a fashion in which his bushmen friends
would not have known him, until his host entered. Then, in that
auspicious moment when his own pipe and his companion's cigarette were
being lighted, he said: "I've been amusing myself with drawing since you
left, sir, and I've produced this," handing over the paper.

Louis Bachelor took the sketch, and, walking to the window for better
light, said: "Believe me, I have a profound respect for the artistic
talent. I myself once had--ah!" He sharply paused as he saw the
pencilled head, and stood looking fixedly at it. Presently he turned
slowly, came to the portrait on the wall, and compared it with that in
his hand. Then, with a troubled face, he said: "You have much talent,
but it is--it is too old--much too old--and very sorrowful."

"I intended the face to show age and sorrow, Mr. Bachelor. Would not the
original of that have both?"

"She had sorrow--she had sorrow, but," and he looked sadly at the sketch