They chatted inconsequentially for a while; then, in reply to a question from Stephanie, he spoke of his picture, "A Bride," and, though it was still unfinished, he showed them a photograph of it. [Illustration: "'It is very beautiful, Louis,' said his mother, with a smile of pride."] The unmounted imprint passed from hand to hand amid various comments. "It is very beautiful, Louis," said his mother, with a smile of pride; and even as she spoke the smile faded and her sad eyes rested on him wistfully. "Is it a sacred picture?" asked his father, examining it through his glasses without the slightest trace of interest. "It is an Annunciation, isn't it?" inquired Lily, calmly. But her heart was failing her, for in the beauty of the exquisite, enraptured face, she saw what might have been the very soul of Valerie West. His father, removing his spectacles, delivered himself of an opinion concerning mysticism, and betrayed an illogical tendency to drift toward the Concord School of Philosophy. However, there seemed to be insufficient incentive; he glanced coldly toward Cameron and resumed Herbert Spencer and his spectacles. "Mother, don't you want to stroll on the lawn a bit?" he asked presently. "It looks very inviting to a city man's pavement-worn feet." She drew her light wool shawl around her shoulders and took her tall son's arm. For a long while they strolled in silence, passed idly through the garden where masses of peonies hung over the paths, and pansies, iris, and forget-me-nots made the place fragrant. It was not until they came to the plank bridge where the meadow rivulet, under its beds of cress and mint, threaded a shining way toward the woods, that his mother said in a troubled voice: "You are not happy, Louis." "Why, mother--what an odd idea!" "Am I mistaken?" she asked, timidly. "Yes, indeed, you are. I am very happy." "Then," she said, "what is it that has changed you so?" [Illustration: "'You are not happy, Louis.'"] "Changed me?" "Yes, dear." "I am not changed, mother." "Do you think a mother can be mistaken in her only son? You are so subdued, so serious. You are like men who have known sorrow.... What sorrow have you ever known, Louis?" "None. No great one, mother. Perhaps, lately, I have developed--recognised--become aware of the sombre part of life--become sensitive to it--to unhappiness in others--and have cared more--" "You speak like a man who has suffered." "But I haven't, mother," he insisted. "Of course, every painter worries. I did last winter--last winter--" He hesitated, conscious that last winter--on the snowy threshold of the new year--sorrow and pain and happiness and pity had, in an instant, assumed for him a significance totally new.