In the final estimate of any picture two artists must bear part, the one who has wrought and the one who appreciates! These two looked now upon the exquisite sketch.
"How do you like it?" The man did not turn or raise his eyes, but his voice brought the quick color to the smooth, brown cheeks.
"Do—do—I look like that?"
"As near as mere man can reproduce you. If I had a magic brush and heaven's own paint pots, I believe I could have done better. I wish you had stayed a half hour longer, but thank God, I've at least caught a hint of you!"
"I—look—like—that!" Amazement thrilled through and through the low voice.
"You—look—like—that! And I am grateful for the best criticism I could ask. What's the matter? What in thunder is the matter?"
For Janet had sunk down beside him, hid her head in her folded arms, and was sobbing as if her heart would break.
"What—in—I say! Miss—Miss—What shall I call you? For heaven's sake, tell me what I've done?"
"Oh! you've dashed every bit of hope I had to—to earn money—and—and fame—for Cap'n Daddy and me!"
The young artist laid his sketch tenderly aside to dry. It was too precious to endanger, even in this disturbed moment. Once it was safe, he stood his full height of six feet two, put his hands in his jacket pockets, looked down upon the heaving body of the Spirit of the Dunes, and said firmly: