THE first shock of Glenn Andrews’ absence was a bitter trial to Esther, who grieved unreasoningly. His going seemed like the end of the world. It was over, those rare, dear days of smiles and tears, of trifling quarrels and sweet reconciliations. She wondered how she had ever thought the sky was so blue, the grass so green. Through all of her desolation, however, ran the thought that he wished nothing so much as for her to advance in her art. Would she let the first rock block her way? Youth can forget its grief. She was so unconsciously true to him, that before she scarcely realized it, she was back at work, harder than ever. She began teaching the kind old German musician English to pay for her instructions. Heart, brain and soul she gave to her art, not all for its sake nor hers, but for the man that was the world’s best type to her. The devotion with which she had worshipped him was for the time transferred to the violin that became the absorbing and crowning ambition of her life. Glenn had been gone nearly a year. The summer, instead of bringing him, brought a disappointment. He wrote her: “Fate or Providence has put in its oar to the exclusion of my own interesting plans. I didn’t dare really hope that I should see you this summer, even while I planned the trip. Providence would never be so kind as that. I am ordered to Athens to do some special work for our magazine. They have been unearthing some more wonderful curiosities there. This is the last note I write before going abroad, for I sail early to-morrow morning. How much easier it is to learn things than to unlearn them. I used to think differently at college. Very many times, more than I will admit to myself, I have closed my eyes and tried to imagine that I should open them upon yours, gazing disapprovingly at my ‘steenth’ cocktail. Many times I have been glad when I opened them that it was not so--at others I have been a little sorry. There is a deliciousness about your not being with me which is quite a new sensation. I shall never again pity the old Flagellants. I know now that there was a certain ecstasy of pleasure for them which we have taken too little account of. There is a pleasure in not writing to you, too; I am writing now because I know if I don’t I shall not hear again from you, and I confess that I don’t want my flagellation to take that shape. You were growing when I left you. Have you stopped? Don’t stop thinking--don’t stop striving--don’t stop hoping. You have no lack of imagination, inspiration, but you need the cold, cruel leaven of fact. Your symphony needs less harp and more violin. The Jews are clinging to their old ideals. The Gentiles crucified it, and have a living gospel. Let them die if they won’t live without nursing. You don’t want them. (I mean the ideals--not the Jews this time--metaphors always proved too much for me.) And finally don’t preach to others as I am doing to you.