"There was a celebrated novelist there," King went on, "and after dinner he came over to me and held out his hand. He was old and white-haired, and his face was full of tender, poetic emotion. ’If you ever meet your benefactress again,’ he said, 'tell her I’d give half my life to know her. If I’d known her I could write a book that would be immortal.’" There was a pause. Ann seemed to be trying to crush out some obstruction to deliberate utterance in her big, throbbing throat. "If he knew my life just as it has been," she said, finally—"if he knew it all—all that I’ve been through, all I’ve thought through it all, from the time I was an innocent, laughing girl ’till now, as an old woman, I’m fighting a battle of hate with every living soul within miles of me—if he knew all _that_, he could write a book, and it would be a big one. But it wouldn’t help humanity, Luke. My hate’s mine, and the devil’s. It’s not for folks born lucky and happy. Some folks seem put on earth for love. I’m put here for hate and for joy over the misfortune of my enemies." "You know many things, Aunt Ann," King said, softly, "and you are older than I am, but you can’t see the end of it all as clearly as I do." "You think not, my boy?" "No, Aunt Ann; I have learned that nothing exists on earth except to produce ultimate good. The vilest crime, indirectly, is productive of good. I confidently expect to see the day that you will simply rise one step higher in your remarkable life and learn to love your enemies. Then you’ll be understood by them all as I understand you, for they will then look into your heart, your _real_ heart, as I’ve looked into it ever since you took pity on the friendless, barefoot boy that I was and lifted me out of my degradation and breathed the breath of hope into my despondent body. And when that day comes—mark it as my prediction—you will slay the ill-will of your enemies with a glance from your eye, and they will fall conquered at your feet." "Huh!" Ann muttered, "you say that because you are just looking at the surface of things. You see, I know a lots that you don’t. Things have gone on here and are still going on that nothing earthly could stop." "That’s it, Aunt Ann," Luke King said, seriously—"it won’t be anything earthly. It will be _heavenly_, and when the bolt falls you will acknowledge I am right. Now, I must go. It will be about dark when I get to my step-father’s." Ann walked with him to the gate, and as she closed it after him she held out her hand. It was quivering. "You are a good boy, Luke," she said, "but you don’t know one hundredth part of what they’ve said and done since you left. I never wrote you." "I don’t care what they’ve done or said out of their shallow heads and cramped lives," King laughed—"they won’t be able to affect your greater existence. You’ll slay it all, Aunt Ann, with forgiveness—yes, and pity. You’ll see the day you’ll pity them rather than hate them."