Tarboe threw back his head and laughed and nodded. The old man's eyes
twinkled. "By gracious, we're well met! I never was in a bigger hole in
my life. One of my sons has left me. I bought him out, and he's joined
my enemy Belloc."

"Yes, I know," remarked Tarboe.

"My other son, he's no good. He's as strong as a horse--but he's no
good. He paints, he sculps. He doesn't care whether I give him money or
not. He earns his living as he wants to earn it. When Fabian left me, I
tried Carnac. I offered to take him in permanently. He tried it, but he
wouldn't go on. He got out. He's twenty-six. The papers are beginning
to talk about him. He doesn't care for that, except that it brings in
cash for his statues and pictures. What's the good of painting and
statuary, if you can't do the big things?"

"So you think the things you do are as big as the things that
Shakespeare, or Tennyson, or Titian, or Van Dyck, or Watt, or Rodin do
--or did?"

"Bigger-much bigger," was the reply.

The younger man smiled. "Well, that's the way to look at it, I suppose.
Think the thing you do is better than what anybody else does, and you're
well started."

"Come and do it too. You're the only man I've cottoned to in years.
Come with me, and I'll give you twelve thousand dollars a year; and I'll
take you into my business.--I'll give you the best chance you ever had.
You've found your health; come back and keep it. Don't you long for the