“Palmists?”

“Yes, ma’am.  Well, now, say, did they ever tell you that you were going to be the pride and joy of old Pap Hudson?  Give me your little paw, girl!”

Sheila’s hand obeyed rather unwillingly her irresolute, polite will.  Hudson’s came quickly to meet it, spread it out flat in his own long palm, and examined the small rigid surface.

“Well, now, Miss Sheila, I can read something there.”

“What can you read?”

“You’re goin’ to be famous.  You’re goin’ to make Millings famous.  Girl, you’re goin’ to be a picture that will live in the hearts of fellows and keep ’em warm when they’re herding winter nights.  The thought of you is goin’ to keep ’em straight and pull ’em back here.  You ‘re goin’ to be a—­a sort of a beacon light.”

He was holding her slim hand with its small, crushable bones in an excited grip.  He was bending forward, not looking at the palm, but at her.  Sheila pulled back, wincing a little.

“What do you mean, Mr. Hudson?  How could I be all that?”

Sylvester let her go.  He began to pace the room.  He stopped and looked at her, almost wistfully.

“You really think that I’ve been kind of nice to you?” he asked.

“Indeed, you have!”

“I’m not a happy man and I’ve got to be sort of distrustful.  I haven’t got much faith in the thankfulness of people.  I’ve got fooled too often.”

“Try me,” said Sheila quickly.

He looked at her with a long and searching look.  Then he sighed.

“Some day maybe I will.  Run away to bed now.”

Sheila felt as if she had been pushed away from a half-opened door.  She drew herself up and walked across the huge flowers of the carpet.  But before going out she turned back.  Sylvester quickly banished a sly smile.

“You won’t be angry with Dickie?” she asked.

“Not if it’s going to deal you any misery, little girl.”

“You’re very kind to me.”

He put up his hand.  “That’s all right, Miss Sheila,” he said.  “That’s all right.  It’s a real pleasure and comfort to me to have you here and I’ll try to shape things so they’ll suit you—­and Momma too.  Trust me.  But don’t you ask me to put any faith in Dickie’s upper story.  I’ve climbed up there too often.  I’ll give up my plan to go round there to-morrow and—­” He paused grimly.

“And bawl him out?” suggested Sheila with one of her Puckish impulses.

“Hump!  I was going a little further than that.  He would likely have done the bawlin’.  But don’t you worry yourself about Dickie.  He’s safe for this time—­so long’s you don’t blame me, or—­The Aura.”

His voice on the last word suffered from one of its cracks.  It was as though it had broken under a load of pride and tenderness.

Sheila saw for a moment how it was with him.  To every man his passion and his dream:  to Sylvester Hudson, his Aura.  More than wife or child, he loved his bar.  It was a fetish, an idol.  To Sheila’s fancy Dickie suddenly appeared the sacrifice.