itical
and the most generous. I spoke on Literature and Democracy.

Hester approved my effort. "How does it feel to be great?" she laughed.
"How does it feel to be cruel?" I retorted. "But think, Mr. Kempton,
when you visited the English classes you were just so much text for us.
It should count us a unit merely to have seen you."

A memory stood up and had its revenge on me. It taunted me for the
half-expressed thought, for the fled insight, for the swelling note that
midmost broke. Praise the artist, and he feels himself betrayer.
Blear-eyed, the poet recalls the poem's sunrise, straightens himself
with the old pride, is held again by the splendour which forecasts the
about-to-be-steadier glory of day, and even with the recalling he
shrinks together before what he knows was a false dawn. There was never
a day. The song's note never sang itself at all.

Hester looked up with that wistfulness which so draws me. Her look said:
"I pity you. I wish you were as happy as I." And a thought leaped out in
answer to her look which would have smote her had it spoken. It was,
"You, too, are awakened by a false dawning." Why is she so sure of
herself and of you? Is she sure? The puny bit of writing had a vigorous
rising. The ragged author was clad in it as in ermine. So the seeming
love makes a strong call, for a while holding the girl intent upon a
splendour of unfolding, her nature roused, her being expectant. But
later, for poet and lover, the failure and the waste! Were it otherwise
with your feeling for your betrothed, the comparison would not hold.

Hester does not think these things, and she is beautiful and happy.

Yours devotedly,
DANE KEMPTON.

XXXIV

FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME

STANFORD UNIVERSITY.
Saturday.

Her happiness wrung it from me. Before I could intervene, the question
asked itself, "How will it be with you in after years?"

Straight the answer came, "There will be Herbert."

Hester is proud. To-night I saw it in the lift of her chin, in the set
of her neck, in the brilliance of her cheek. She knows herself endowed.
So when she prattled with abandon of all you both meant to be and do,
her form erect before me, her hands eloquent with excitement, her voice
pleading for the right to her very conscious self-esteem, I asked her to
look still further. Further she saw you, and was content.

That was before dinner. Later we were walking. "I have a friend in
Orion," she said. The witchery of star