“Where is my gift destined to be placed?” I asked, as we moved once more toward the door. She took it from the folds of her dress and looked at it. “It is not dark,” she said. “It shines as usual. Are you quite sure it is a failure? You may have given me a gift that still had worth. How terrible that would be!” I laughed. “I am afraid it would never have met with much approval. I can quite see myself that, judged from some points, it might be called extravagant.” “Now,” she cried, putting her hand upon my arm, “I’ll give you a little piece of advice, a real piece of worldly wisdom.” “What is it?” “Never admit yourself to be in the wrong.” “But—” I began. “No ‘buts.’ Never admit yourself to be in the wrong. I’ll give you another piece of advice too. If anyone says anything to you about your book, tell them they must be terribly dull of comprehension. It was simply written as a caricature of everything but goodness.” “You know more about it than I do myself.” “No, I don’t. But you forget. You’ve had so much of the cramping pain of failure since, that you forget the pleasant hours you spent when it was being written. I remember one night, after the little house was quiet, and you had gone away, Plucritus took one of those books and turned the leaves up to a certain page. “‘Look here, Virginius,’ he exclaimed, ‘is this meant for me?’ “Now my husband, though most serious as a rule when down on earth, could not repress a smile, and I, in heaven, listening, laughed aloud in pure amusement, unmindful of the darkening future. “‘I don’t know,’ he answered. ‘But I think there is a resemblance somewhere.’ “‘Then,’ said Plucritus, ‘if this fool understands me no better than this it’s time her eyes were opened.’ “I ceased to laugh, for I had known him many centuries, and though at times generous enough and noble enough when dealing with us, I have never known him relent one atom in his dealing with humanity. “‘You should blame Genius,’ urged my husband. “‘Oh! I will blame as many as you wish. The more the merrier. Will you give me his address?’ “‘I do not know it,’ Virginius replied. “‘Perhaps when this comes out he will take refuge with you.’ “‘We are not a Camp of Refuge,’ Virginius rejoined coldly. ‘Simply a haven of comparative rest.’ “‘You are lying,’ retorted Plucritus, abruptly. ‘You know more about him than you will confess.’ “‘I know nothing more than you yourself.’ “But dear me!” she broke off suddenly, “there I am wandering away from my subject, and talking about muddling identities, instead of proceeding with my own advice. What was I saying? That you had forgotten the moral of your story. But you have given the book to me, and I shall preserve the moral at any cost; and at the same time I shall remember my duty towards my neighbour and compose an eleventh commandment to suit my own requirements.” “And what will that be?”