haps he intended that it should. For some of them had never even heard of the Sphinx, and, forthwith, there was much surreptitious consulting of encyclopedias. But they found only that the Sphinx was not a real person or thing, but a myth, a sort of riddle in itself; that its supposed image had been hewn out of the rock ages ago, and left on the sands of the desert, nobody knew why; and that it was a fad among artists to copy it in painting and sculpture. So most of the curious went their ways, shaking their heads sadly at the "crankiness" of the "mad artist."
It did seem as if the man were not quite sane, so determined was he to work on afternoons when the sun shone fiercest. In vain did Mrs. Merriweather, with whom he boarded, urge him with motherly kindness to take the cool of the morning for his work, reminding him that he was far from strong, and to run such risks was simply tempting Providence. But even she lost patience with him at last, and let him go his own way. So when he took to his bed on the completion of the picture, she was scarcely surprised, though she nursed him carefully. He grew weaker steadily, and died within a fortnight. The day before he died he called Mrs. Merriweather to his bedside and gave her a check for three hundred dollars on the Highville Savings Bank.
"This represents all the money I have in the bank," he said; "and when I am gone, and the necessary funeral expenses have been paid, keep what is left of it for yourself."
Mrs. Merriweather carried out these instructions faithfully, even generously; for she marked his grave with a neat headstone, bearing an appropriate inscription. Yet there were those who said that she was a good manager, and that the greater part of the three hundred dollars remained in her possession; also, that it was a pity that, as Mr. Pool had no near relatives, a part of the residue, at least, might not have gone to the new hospital in Highville.
After the artist's death there was a slight revival of interest in the picture on the half-way stone. Several persons professed to think that there was a "deeper" meaning to it than was apparent; something about bygone ages, or his own life, or his religious beliefs. But the practical minded laughed at these theories, and soon the Sphinx by the roadside was all but forgotten.
When Ann was sufficiently rested she rose from her seat on the
