CHAPTER IV.
The wolf-cub at even lay hid in the corn, When the smoke of the cooking hung gray: He knew where the doe made a couch for her fawn, And he looked to his strength for his prey.
But the moon swept the smoke-wreaths away.
And he turned from his meal in the villager's close, And he bayed to the moon as she rose.
-- In Seonee.
'WELL, and how does success taste ?' said Torpenhow, some three months later.

He had just returned to chambers after a holiday in the country.
'Good,' said Dick, as he sat licking his lips before the easel in the studio.
'I want more,--heaps more.

The lean years have passed, and I approve of these fat ones.' 'Be careful, old man.

That way lies bad work.' Torpenhow was sprawling in a long chair with a small fox-terrier asleep on his chest, while Dick was preparing a canvas.

A dais, a background, and a lay-figure were the only fixed objects in the place.