They noticed that the sun was near to setting, and one of them saw the glory.

“I want you to tell me honestly,” said the other.  “You have taken my picture; what do you think it looks like?  That is a fair question.”

“Like misery,” replied Summerman, promptly enough.

“Is that all?  I thought worse.  I thought it looked like a very devil’s face.  When I go back, I’ll destroy it.  But, then, it looks like me!  Now, I can’t afford to live a scarecrow.  I believe I wasn’t made to frighten others to death.  I’d choose to die myself first.”  He dropped his voice to a whisper.  “I’ve been trying to do that.  Tried twice.  Is there any particular luck in a third time, that you know of?”

Summerman did not answer, though Rush was looking full upon him; neither did he avoid the long and piercing gaze the stranger fixed upon him.  He met that like a man.

“You think I’m mad,” at last said Mr. Rush.

“Not exactly.”

“Thank you.  But you are a gipsy.  Read my fortune.”

Gravely Summerman looked at the fair, smooth palm that was suddenly stretched before him.

“You have been unfortunate,” said he.

“Oh, no; you mustn’t admit that.  Only a little money lost, that’s all.”

“Is it all, indeed?” asked Summerman, and he dropped the palm.  Then he shook his head.  “I do not think it could have served you so.  A little loss!” said he.

“That is because fortune never made a fool of you.  Let me alone; I want to think.”  He spoke in the quick, peremptory manner of a man who is accustomed to command; but he came very near to smiling the next moment, as he looked down at the little person whom he had ordered into silence.

Then he broke the silence he had enjoined.

“Suppose you were in my case,” said he, “how would you act?”

“I am not.  How can I tell?” was Summerman’s prudent answer.

These words, as indeed any words that he could have spoken, were the best that Redman Rush could hear; for now he was leaning with the whole weight of his moral nature on the life of this strong-hearted, true-hearted organist.  He liked the unpresuming, modest, generous word.

“I’ll tell you what you would be,” said he, quickly.  “A month ago worth half a million—­to-day not a cent.  Brought up like a fool, you would probably be one.  Turned out of house, helpless as a baby.  You have yourself—­master of your wits and your hands.  Look at these hands!  And all my wits can advise me is, this life isn’t worth the keeping.”

“Oh, no; not to-day!  They don’t say that to-day!” exclaimed Summerman, speaking as if he knew.  And he ventured further, boldly:  “They advise you, go home to your wife and your child; live for them and yourself, and God’s honor.”

“Wife—­child!” repeated Rush; and he blushed when he added; “you read fortunes.  Your pardon.”

“I saw it in your face,” said the organist, quietly.  “When you looked at our little Mary, I believed you were thinking of some other little child.  And it reminded you of some other young lady, when I told you what I expected once.  If it hadn’t been for them, you would never have thought of destroying yourself; and I’m sure, on their account, what you ought to ask and hope is, that your life may be spared.”