A few, however, stood before them filled with delight. They were people of the planet from which the artist came, and they recognized their kindred in the faces and forms she had depicted; but she herself was never satisfied with what she had done. Within her mind, faces more glorious, and forms more perfect struggled for expression. “I have a tale to tell,” she said, “that many will be glad to hear, for it contains help for all.” But again the world did not understand. It said, “The people of this book are impossible people, and what is the author trying to say? We see nothing in it.” A few only understood; but these were of her planet. “Now,” she said, “I will write again, and this time the world will read and be charmed. I will give it what it wants, not what I want to give it.” She spoke truly. She wrote and many were pleased; but the people of her planet closed her book with pain in their faces, and she herself found no joy in it. To her conscience she made this excuse: “I want bread and the easy, comfortable things of life, and the world wants foolishness, so we exchange products. Some day I will write that which pleases myself. Then I shall make no concessions, no bids for favor. I shall say what I feel and think.” Time went on, and the world became interested in new names, and almost forgot hers. Days of discouragement and distress arrived. The ease which she had bought by pleasing the commonplace, vanished, and loneliness, ill-health and poverty came in its stead. Weary and sick unto death in spirit and body, she longed to end it all, and so longing fell asleep, and sleeping dreamed. She saw again the faces of those from her other world who had come to comfort her when a child. One, the most beautiful of all, and yet just now the saddest, seemed nearer and dearer than the others. It was a glorious face, radiant with strength and sweetness, a type of perfect womanhood. All her life it had visited her in dreams and haunted her imagination. Sometimes the name that belonged to it hovered on her lips, yet was never spoken, for it always vanished before it took shape in her mind. “Did you find your work?” they asked. “I tried hard, dear friends,” she said. “I have not been idle.” But their faces showed no joy. “Have I not done my work well?” she questioned, beginning to be afraid. “Have you given your best?” they asked. A flush of shame covered her face. “No; the world did not want it.” They were silent, and there was that in their eyes which made her more and more ashamed. “I needed bread,” she said, anxious to make excuse. “Is bread all that is worth striving for, that you paid for it so high a price?” they asked. She was silent. “Did you come to please or help the people of this world?” they asked.