"I know why you should be a success," he said, another time, "if you had a more dramatic part. I've studied it out----" "What is it?" said Carrie. "Well," he said, as one pleased with a puzzle, "the expression in your face is one that comes out in different things. You get the same thing in a pathetic song, or any picture which moves you deeply. It's a thing the world likes to see, because it's a natural expression of its longing." Carrie gazed without exactly getting the import of what he meant. "The world is always struggling to express itself," he went on. "Most people are not capable of voicing their feelings. They depend upon others. That is what genius is for. One man expresses their desires for them in music; another one in poetry; another one in a play. Sometimes nature does it in a face--it makes the face representative of all desire. That's what has happened in your case." He looked at her with so much of the import of the thing in his eyes that she caught it. At least, she got the idea that her look was something which represented the world's longing. She took it to heart as a creditable thing, until he added: "That puts a burden of duty on you. It so happens that you have this thing. It is no credit to you--that is, I mean, you might not have had it. You paid nothing to get it. But now that you have it, you must do something with it." "What?" asked Carrie. "I should say, turn to the dramatic field. You have so much sympathy and such a melodious voice. Make them valuable to others. It will make your powers endure." Carrie did not understand this last. All the rest showed her that her comedy success was little or nothing. "What do you mean?" she asked. "Why, just this. You have this quality in your eyes and mouth and in your nature. You can lose it, you know. If you turn away from it and live to satisfy yourself alone, it will go fast enough. The look will leave your eyes. Your mouth will change. Your power to act will disappear. You may think they won't, but they will. Nature takes care of that." He was so interested in forwarding all good causes that he sometimes became enthusiastic, giving vent to these preachments. Something in Carrie appealed to him. He wanted to stir her up. "I know," she said, absently, feeling slightly guilty of neglect. "If I were you," he said, "I'd change." The effect of this was like roiling helpless waters. Carrie troubled over it in her rocking-chair for days. "I don't believe I'll stay in comedy so very much longer," she eventually remarked to Lola. "Oh, why not?" said the latter. "I think," she said, "I can do better in a serious play." "What put that idea in your head?" "Oh, nothing," she answered; "I've always thought so." Still, she did nothing--grieving. It was a long way to this better thing--or seemed so--and comfort was about her; hence the inactivity and longing. CHAPTER XLVII THE WAY OF THE BEATEN: A HARP IN THE WIND