“Well, I do—I do,” returned Dearing. “There was a time, thanks to my early association with you, by-the-way, when I doubted; but I always had a frightful pang at the thought that the wonderful mystery of life must continue to be a closed book to me. I fought it, Kenneth, old man—I fought that thought day and night, because my soul was so enamoured with the great secret that I could not give it up; and now—well, on my honor, the faith in it has become my very existence. Without that prospect I'd stop right here. I'd not care to move an inch. I'd as soon cut your throat as to treat you as a friend. But I didn't come to preach. What is that you've got stacked up on the table—drawings for another trunk-line?”
“No.” Galt rose languidly and smiled. “I'll show you something very pretty. You know I am fond of good pictures, and I flatter myself that I have discovered a genius. There is an art dealer, F. B. Jenkins, in Atlanta, whom I know pretty well, and he called me in the other day to show me some water-color pictures by a young girl, who, it seems, is too modest to allow her name to be used. Then, too, I think he regards her as his find, and doesn't want other dealers to know about her. I bought these.”
Galt opened a big portfolio, and began taking out the pictures one by one. “Where has any one ever seen a child more lifelike than that one? Why, it is actually walking away from the paper; and look at that one on the fence, and this boy with the top and string!”
“Why, good gracious!” Dearing cried out, impulsively, as he stood transfixed by surprise, “I know who did that work—I—” But he checked himself suddenly.
“You know who did it?” Galt said, facing him in surprise. “What do you mean, Wynn. Do you really know anything about it?”
“I spoke without thinking,” Dearing said, awkwardly. “You know, a physician sometimes runs across matters which he is obliged to regard as confidential, and, since the—the lady doesn't want to be known, I could not feel free to mention her name; besides, you know, I might be mistaken.”
Dearing turned from the pictures and moved toward the door.
“I am satisfied that you could tell more about it if you would,” Galt said. “I really would like to know, for I have never run across pictures I liked so well. And to think they are done by some young woman who may not know how good her work really is!”
“I know nothing—absolutely nothing,” Wynn said, with a non-committal smile. “But, if I did, I wouldn't trust it to you or any other man, so there you are. Why haven't you been over? Uncle Tom and Madge look for you every afternoon to join them at tea. You'd better come soon; they are off for New York in a few days.”
“New York!” Galt exclaimed, in surprise.