e school of life,
itself. When she wrote those letters, you were a student of mere
craftsmanship. She, herself no doubt, recognized that you would not fully
comprehend the things she wrote; but she put them down, out of the very
fullness of her intellectual and spiritual wealth--trusting to your love
to preserve the letters, and to the years to give you understanding."

"Why," cried the artist, "those are almost her exact words--as I have just
been reading them!"

The other, smiling, continued quietly, "Your appreciation and
understanding of your mother will continue to grow through all your life,
Aaron. When you are old--as old as I am--you will still find in those
letters hidden treasures of thought, and truths of greater value than you,
now, can realize. But here--I have brought you your share of the
afternoon's mail."

When Aaron King opened the envelope that his friend laid on the table
before him, he sat regarding its contents with an air of thoughtful
meditation--lost to his surroundings.

The novelist--who had gone to the window and was looking into the rose
garden--turned to speak to his friend; but the other did not reply. Again,
the man at the window addressed the painter; but still the younger man was
silent. At this, Conrad Lagrange came back to the table; an expression of
anxiety upon his face. "What is it, old man? What's the matter? No bad
news, I hope?"

Aaron King, aroused from his fit of abstraction, laughed shortly, and held
out to his friend the letter he had just received. It was from Mr. Taine.
Enclosed was the millionaire's check. The letter was a formal business
note; the check was for an amount that drew a low whistle from the
novelist's lips.

"Rather higher pay than old brother Judas received for a somewhat similar
service, isn't it," he commented, as he passed the letter and check back
to the artist. Then, as he watched the younger man's face, he asked,
"What's the matter, don't you like the flavor of these first fruits of
your shame? I advise you to cultivate a taste for this sort of thing as
quickly as possible--in your own defense."

"Don't you think you are a little bit too hard on us all, Lagrange?" asked
the artist, with a faint smile. "These people are satisfied. The picture
pleases them."

"Of course they are pleased," retorted the other. "You know your business.
That's the trouble with you. That's the trouble with us all, these
days--we painters and writers and musicians--