“MY young Idealist, I send you a clever story, one which shows remarkable talent, and which you really must read. There is, or was, once upon a time in this town, another consummate young Idealist like yourself, but of the female persuasion; a protegé of yours who fiddled. She, I remember, believed in a few things; among others, that there was a little to be considered besides art, and that she had a lump somewhere which she called a heart. You have always been troubled with the same feature, I believe. “The lady has just issued a story, which I send you to-day. Just take a look at it and find me that lump, will you? Cold as an icicle! By the way, I understand that the lady in question was quite a social success here in our city, and very much sought after in drawing rooms, in which she earned about her own price. She has come to the philosophical conclusion that you used to uphold: which is, that as long as a person _does_, it don’t much matter what a person _feels_. Anyway, she is doing it; and I take it from this novel that she is not feeling much either. “Yours, Briarley.” Glenn read the letter with a curious shock, and opened the novelette. As he finished the last page and laid it down on the table beside him--this story with the heart of a stone--he sat looking out the window with a daze of anguish in his eyes. His hands were supporting his bearded chin. Without, the splendid sunset, the gilding flame of which caused his features to shine resplendently. His sad, wistful face, convulsed with emotion. What a tumult of silent, unspeakable memories; what feelings of regret and longing! Instinct does not always point the truth. No suspicion of the brave ruse of Esther came to him now--no apprehension of the hurt pride whose strain of revolt forced from her this literary lie. He had been driven blindly on by his yearning for the more perfect art. He didn’t care for laurels now, nor for that art for whose sake he had destroyed the best thing in his life. Was ever heart-break more cruel? He sat for an hour in silence. The sunset had lost its beauty. The grain on the hills had lost its gold. He took the letter he had been writing to Esther, tore it up, and flung the fragments of what, if he had known, was the best of his life, out the window. A lazy breeze caught them up and scattered them. A single one with the word “love” on it was blown back and settled slowly in his hat. A bell was ringing for compline. He saw the peasants in their simple devotion going slowly to worship. He took his hat and walked across the street to the little café. There two comrades called him over to have a bottle of wine with them. “Ah, poet!” one said, laughing as he reached over and took the stray bit of paper that lay on his hair. “Still the philosopher! Making love with your head?”