n, because he was an
artist, he had tired of his masterpiece, and was already fingering a new
plate, vaguely meditating better and more ambitious work. Why not? Why
should he not employ his splendid skill and superb accuracy in something
original? That is where the artist and the artisan part company--the
artisan is always content to copy; the artist, once master of his tools,
creates.

In Helm the artist was now in the ascendant; he dreamed of engraving
living things direct from nature--the depths of forests shot with
sunshine, scrubby uplands against a sky crowded with clouds, and perhaps
cattle nosing for herbage among the rank fern and tangled briers of a
scanty pasture--perhaps even the shy, wild country children, bareheaded
and naked of knee and shoulder, half-tamed, staring from the road-side
brambles.

It is, of course, possible that Helm was a natural-born criminal, yet
his motive for trying his skill at counterfeiting was revenge and not
personal gain.

He had served his apprenticeship in the Bureau of Engraving and
Printing. He had served the government for twelve years, through three
administrations. Being a high salaried employe, the civil service gave
him no protection when the quadrennial double-shuffle changed the
politics of the administration. He was thrown aside like a shabby
garment which has served its purpose, and although for years he had
known what ultimate reward was reserved for those whom the republic
hires, he could never bring himself to believe that years of faithful
labor and a skill which increased with every new task set could meet the
common fate. So when his resignation was requested, and when, refusing
indignantly, he was turned out, neck and heels, after his twelve years
of faultless service, it changed the man terribly.

He went away with revenge in his mind and the skill and intelligence to
accomplish it. But now that he had accomplished it, and the plate was
finished, and the government at his mercy, the incentive to consummate
his revenge lagged. After all, what could he revenge himself on? The
government?--that huge, stupid, abstract bulk! Had it a shape, a form
concrete, nerves, that it could suffer in its turn? Even if it could
suffer, after all, he was tired of suffering. There was no novelty in
it.

Perhaps his recent life alone in the sweet, wholesome woods had soothed
a bitter and rebellious heart. There is a balm for deepest wounds in the
wind, and in the stillness