were forgotten as the children, without a
care, sang and danced in the light of our new and broadened hearth.

[Illustration: That night as my daughters, "dressed up" as princesses,
danced like fairies in the light of our restored and broadened hearth, I
forgot all the toil, all the disheartenment which the burning of the
house had brought upon me. To them the re-built homestead was only
another evidence of their Daddy's magic power. His lamp was not less
potent than Aladdin's.]

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Darkness Just Before the Dawn

In going back over the records of the years 1912 and 1913, I can see
that my life was lacking in "drive." It is true I wrote two fairly
successful novels which were well spoken of by my reviewers and in
addition I continued to conduct the Cliff Dwellers' Club and to act as
one of the Vice Presidents of the National Institute of Arts and
Letters, but I was very far from a feeling of satisfaction with my
position. My life seemed dwindling into futility. I was in physical pain
much of the time and tortured by a fear of the future.

Naturally and inevitably the burden of my increasing discontent, worse
health, fell with sad reiteration upon my wife, who was not only called
upon to endure poverty, but to bear with a sick and disheartened
husband. The bravery of her smile served to increase my sense of
unworthiness. Her very sweetness, her cheerful acceptance of
never-ending household drudgery, was an accusation.

She no longer touched brush or clay, although I strongly urged her to
sketch or model the children. She had no time, even if she had retained
the will, to continue her work as an artist. With a faculty for
entertaining handsomely and largely, with hosts of friends who would
have clustered about her with loyal admiration, she remained the
mistress of a narrow home and one more or less incompetent housemaid.
All these considerations added to my sense of weakness and made the
particular manuscript upon which I was spending most of my time, a piece
of selfish folly.

For ten years I had been working, from time to time, on an
autobiographical manuscript which I had called by various names, but
which had finally solidified into _A Son of the Middle Border_. Even in
my days of deepest discouragement I turned most of my energy to its
revision. In the belief that it was my final story and with small hope
of its finding favor in any form, I toiled away, year after year,
finding in t