"Almost," said Kenny, "I did not remember to lie in time. Truth is a thing I cannot understand." The sympathy in Garry's eyes unnerved him. "Garry," he flamed, "why did I practice the telling of truth to end now with a lie? Why did Joan plead for a year to learn to be my wife and learn in it--not to be?" "God knows!" said Garry gently. "Why did agony come to Brian at the hands of a boy he'd befriended? And then--to you?" "It is the Samhain of my life," said Kenny rising. "And I am no longer John Whitaker's King of Youth. I think my youth died back there when Don thrust it aside, not meaning, I take it, to be cruel. But I grew up all at once." He frowned. "Drowning men, they say, have a kaleidoscopic vision of the past. I think sitting here that came to me. Perhaps, Garry, if Eileen had lived I would have been different--steadier. I think I loved her. I think it would have lasted. A child is a beautiful link. Perhaps that fever of vanity that grew to a burning in my veins would never have started. Started, it was like a conflagration. It drove Brian to sunsets. God knows what it didn't do. I thought only of myself--always. That desire for adulation in a woman's eyes, that curious persistent fever was, I'm sure, a sort of sex vanity. It has nearly ruined many another man's life. It nearly ruined mine. Always when I was drifting into new madness, I couldn't work. I dreamed. The Isle of Delight, always receding! I sang and whistled. The King of Youth! Only when I was drifting out again, could I bend myself to concentration and sanity. And then another look in a girl's soft eyes--and more vanity and self and delirium. But I'm tired. I want to look ahead to--to quiet and steadiness and work." Garry, with the husk still in his throat, wandered off to the window. "Garry!" Garry wheeled and found a wistful, boyish Kenny with his fingers in his hair. "I'm no longer a failure as a parent?" "No!" said Garry with decision. "And God knows I haven't been a failure as a lover. I'm prayin' I shan't always be a failure as a painter. It's the one thing left. Somewhere in Ireland, Garry, nine silent fairies blow beneath a caldron. They know the secrets of the future. I'd like to be peepin'." He was to know in time that the caldron held for him peace and big achievement. "I wish I could help!" said Garry. "Garry, could you--would you drive me home to-night?" "Anything!" "You'll not be mindin'?" "No. It's better." "Come," said Kenny, his color high. "We'll be facin' it now." They went in silence through the pines. CHAPTER XLII THE END OF KENNY'S SONG A light flickered on the porch where Hannah hovered around the supper table, puzzled and annoyed. "I'm glad somebody's come at last," she exclaimed a trifle tartly. "Every bug on the ridge has been staring at the supper table through the screens. And I promised Mis' Owen to drive over there to-night with Hughie." "Where's Brian?"