CHAPTER XXXII.
When the snow fell upon the clashing life of the city, the exiled stones, beaten by myriad strange feet, were told of the dark, silent forests where the flakes swept through the hemlocks and swished softly against the boulders.
In his studio Hawker smoked a pipe, clasping his knee with thoughtful, interlocked fingers.

He was gazing sourly at his finished picture.

Once he started to his feet with a cry of vexation.

Looking back over his shoulder, he swore an insult into the face of the picture.

He paced to and fro, smoking belligerently and from time to time eying it.