“What are they?” Thurley asked, feeling the simple girl from Birge’s Corners again, a _de luxe_ Topsy! “The wind, the death cry of a warrior and a woman’s sobs,” he answered so quickly she knew it had been clear to him for a long time. “No one will ever write the sonata, so words must do their best. At least, I choose to whom they shall be said. For it is as if you were looking into the very soul of me, as a mother does when she first sees her newborn child, the instant when the mysterious bond between them is formed for all time, despite all happenings.” Thurley leaned forward in her chair, her blue eyes serious. “I shall understand,” she promised. “I have never told any one all I shall tell you to-day, because I could not bear to have them jangle and disagree in silly, stupid ways—like an auctioneer trying to prove that the contents of a shrine were not of intrinsic value but merely worth while as souvenirs! Because I think it is worth while, I shall tell you. All the others,” he shook his head, “were not worth it! Nor could I have told you at the beginning—you could not have understood. Now, you are at the crossroads, flirting with each direction, undecided which way you are going to travel.” “I shall understand you,” she repeated. To herself she added, “Because I love you!” “It seemed to me as I pulled myself together after the fever and cast about for another way of being useful, that true art was not symbolized by a laurel wreath but by a violet crown—I daresay the notion started from my admiration of the wonderful enamelled cups used in cathedrals—lavender and sapphire. So I named the symbol for genius, the crown typifying supremacy, violet, as the ecclesiastics interpret it—humbleness, for those who possess true genius must be ever mindful of the sparrow’s fall. It has seemed to me the violet crown could be, figuratively, won only by such a nation as America, which, like the Child in the temple, commanded respect and consideration of the elders—or the Old World with its shallow reasonings as to art. For the Old World has, to my mind, treated art and its artists somewhat after the fashion of Barmecide’s Feast—the Arabian Nights’ tale of the prince who bade the beggar sit at the snowy table a-glitter with golden service and, lo, when the platters were lifted, the plates were devoid of food! So it is with true art—we have had wonderful achievements, but we have not yet made ourselves realize the moral significance and responsibility of art and artists, that has been as devoid of justice as the golden plates of Prince Barmecide were of food—” He paused. Thurley was eager to speak. “Why, then, can I understand your vision?” hoping for but one reply.