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"I don’t know as I blame yeh for that, How," said Grant slowly. It was the first time he had called Howard by his boyish nickname. His voice was softer, too, and higher in key. But he looked steadily away.

"I went to New York. People liked my work. I was very successful, Grant; more successful than you realize. I could have helped you at any time. There’s no use lying about it. And I ought to have done it; but some way–it’s no excuse, I don’t mean it for an excuse, only an explanation–some way I got in with the boys. I don’t mean I was a drinker and all that. But I bought pictures and kept a horse and a yacht, and of course I had to pay my share of all expeditions, and–oh, what’s the use!"

He broke off, turned, and threw his open palms out toward his brother, as if throwing aside the last attempt at an excuse.

"I did neglect you, and it’s a damned shame! and I ask your forgiveness. Come, old man!"

He held out his hand, and Grant slowly approached and took it. There was a little silence. Then Howard went on, his voice trembling, the tears on his face.

"I want you to let me help you, old man. That’s the way to forgive me. Will you?"

"Yes, if you can help me. "

Howard squeezed his hand. "That’s right, old man. Now you make me a boy again. Course I can help you. I’ve got ten–"

"I don’t mean that, How. " Grant’s voice was very grave. "Money can’t give me a chance now. "

"What do you mean?"

"I mean life ain’t worth very much to me. I’m too old to take a new start. I’m a dead failure. I’ve come to the conclusion that life’s a failure for ninety-nine per cent of us. You can’t help me now. It’s too late. "

The two men stood there, face to face, hands clasped, the one fair-skinned, full-lipped, handsome in his neat sult; the other tragic, somber in his softened mood, his large, long, rugged Scotch face bronzed with sun and scarred with wrinkles that had histories, like saber cuts on a veteran, the record of his battles.