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 | ELL, 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. They rose from a wreck of oddments that began with felt-covered water-bottles, belts, and regimental badges, and ended