The Tragedy of a Picture

"I suppose it was," answered his brother, in no mood for discussion.

He stood, with his hands in his pockets, staring at Jack, and wishing from his whole heart he could bring back the haggard, hunted look to the man's eyes. The stamps of vice were disappearing from his brother's lineaments. He was beginning to wear the look of one who was braced for a fight.

The artist turned back again towards his picture. He saw that the original design was exactly as his brain had planned it. The canvas, too, was now almost complete. If he obtained another model the work of many months must inevitably be wasted, and Studio Sunday would find his work incomplete.

He remained motionless, his legs wide apart, his teeth gnawing his lip impatiently. Jack was looking puzzled. He did not understand the predicament in which his altered appearance had placed the artist.

"Well,