Thyrsis had now tried all varieties of the great and successful of the earth--the publishers and editors and authors, the college professors and clergymen, the statesmen and capitalists and philanthropists. And now, for the first time, he tried the Socialists. He trembled when he opened Darrell’s reply. Could it be that this man would be like all the rest? But no, he was different! “Dear Brother:” he wrote. “I understand what you have told me, and I appreciate your position. Send me your manuscripts at once; I leave to-morrow for a lecture-trip, and on my way I will read everything, and let you hear from me on my return. In the meantime, I should add that I am helping two Socialist publications, and a good many individuals too, and that my resources have been absurdly exaggerated in the public prints. I say this, that you may not overestimate what I might possibly be able to do.” Section 10. So Thyrsis sent a manuscript of his play, and a copy of his first novel, and a set of proofs of “The Hearer of Truth”; and then for a couple of weeks he waited in suspense and dread. He could not see how a man like Henry Darrell could fail to appreciate his work; but on the other hand, after so many disappointments and rebuffs, how could he bring himself to believe that any one would really give him aid? At last came a second letter; a letter full of warm-hearted sympathy--pointing out the faults of immaturity in his work, but also recognizing its real merits. It closed with this all-important sentence: “I will do what I can to help you, so come and let us talk it over.” Thyrsis went; and as they sat in his study, Darrell put his arm about him, and told him a little of his own career. He had begun life as a street-waif, a newsboy and bootblack; and once when he was ill, he had gone to a drug-store for help, and the druggist had given him a poison by mistake, so that all his life thereafter he had more sick days than well. He told how, at an early age, he had gone to a country college to seek an education as a divinity-student; he had arrived, weary and footsore, and with his last cent had bought a post-card to let his mother know that he was safe He told how, as a clergyman and college professor the gospel of the time had come to him; how he had preached and labored, amid persecution and obloquy, until he had come to realize that the Church was a dead sepulchre; and how at last he had thrown everything to the winds, and given himself to the working-class political movement. Then Thyrsis, scrupulous as ever, said, “I know nothing about Socialism. I mean to study it; but I might not come to believe in it--how can I tell? I would not want you to help me under any misapprehension.” At which the other smiled gently. “I am working for the truth,” he said.