within her power."

"The gods thought not," said she; "in their very pity they changed her
into stone, and with streaming eyes she ever tells the story of her
sorrow."

"But are her children weeping?" he asked. "I think not. Happiness can
bloom from the seeds of deepest woe," and in a tone almost
reverential, he continued: "I remember a picture in one of our Italian
galleries that always impressed me as the ideal image of maternal
happiness. It is a painting of the Christ-mother standing by the body
of the Crucified. Beauty was still hers, and the dress of grayish hue,
nun-like in its simplicity, seemed more than royal robe. Her face,
illumined as with a light from heaven, seemed inspired with this
thought: 'They have killed Him--they have killed my son! Oh, God, I
thank Thee that His suffering is at an end!' And as I gazed at the
holy face, another light seemed to change it by degrees from saddened
motherhood to triumphant woman! Then came: 'He is not dead, He but
sleeps; He will rise again, for He is the best beloved of the
Father!'"

"Still, fate can rob us of our patrimony," she replied, after a pause.

"Not while life is here and eternity beyond," he said, reassuringly.

"What if a soul lies dormant and will not arouse?" she asked.

"There are souls that have no motive low enough for earth, but only
high enough for heaven," he said, with evident intention, looking
almost directly at her.

"Then one must come who speaks in nature's tongue," she continued.

"And the soul will then awake," he added earnestly.

"But is there such a one?" she asked.

"Perhaps," he almost whispered, his thought father to the wish.

"I am afraid not," she sighed. "I studied drawing, worked diligently
and, I hope, intelligently, and yet I was quickly convinced that a
counterfeit presentment of nature was puny and insignificant. I
painted Niagara. My friends praised my effort. I saw Niagara again--I
destroyed the picture."

"But you must be prepared to accept the limitations of man and his
work," said the philosophical violinist.

"Annihilation of one's own identity in the moment is possible in
nature's domain--never in man's. The resistless, never-ending rush of
the waters, madly churning, pitilessly dashing against the rocks
below; the mighty roar of the loosened giant; that was Niagara. My
picture seemed but a smear of paint."

[Illustration]

"Still, man has won the admiration of man by his achievements," he
said.