n individual art to some great
grief, but no great grief had come to Lewis. His work fulfilled its
promise in just such measure as he had fulfilled himself. In as much as
he had matured, in so much had his art. Man is not ripened by a shock,
but by those elements that develop him to the point of feeling and
knowing the shock when it comes to him. In a drab world, drab would have
been Lewis's end; but, little as he realized it, his world had not been
drab.

Three steady, but varying, lights had shone upon him. The influence of
Natalie, as soft and still as reflected light; of H lne, worldly before
the world, but big of heart; and of Leighton, who had been judged in all
things that he might judge, had drawn Lewis up above his self-chosen
level, given sight to his eyes, and reduced Folly to the proportions of
a little final period to the paragraph of irresponsible youth.

To maturity Lewis had added a gravity that had come to him with the
realization that in distancing himself from youth he had also
unwittingly drawn away from the hearts that had done most toward
bringing him emancipation. He had no psychological turn of mind. He
could not penetrate the sudden reserve that had fallen upon his father
or the apparent increasing distraction with which H lne met his visits.
He did not know that it is in youth and in age that hearts attain their
closest contact and that the soul that finds itself, generally does so
in solitude.

He was hurt by the long silence of his father--a silence unbroken now in
months, and by H lne's withdrawal, which was marked enough to make him
prolong the intervals between his visits to her, and baffled him on
those rare occasions when they met.

His life became somber and, as lightning comes only to clouds, so to his
clouded skies came the flash and the blow of a letter from Africa. It
was not from his father, but from Old Ivory. He found it on the
breakfast table and started to open it, but some premonition arrested
him. He laid it aside, tried to finish his meal, and failed. A thickness
in his throat would not let him eat. He left the table and went into the
living-room, closing the door behind him.

He opened the letter and read the first few words, then he sat and
stared for many a long minute into the fire, the half-crumpled sheets
held tightly in his hand.

Nelton opened the door.

"Excuse me, sir," he said; "you have an engagement at ten."

"Break it by telephone," said Lewis. "Don't