"Lucky people," he answered, smiling, "to have found that out so soon--to have had all this modern life condensed so cozily into your harbor before your eyes--and to have discovered, while you are still young, that life is growth and growth is change. I believe the age we live in is changing so much faster than any age before it, that a man if he's to be vital at all must give up the idea of any fixed creed--in his office, his church or his home--that if he does not, he will only wear himself out butting his indignant head against what is stronger and probably better than he. But if he does, if he holds himself open to change and knows that change is his very life, then he can get a serenity which is as much better than that of the monk as living is better than dying." We talked of books being written in England and France, in Germany and Russia, all dealing with deep changes in the views and beliefs and desires of men. "Any man," he said, "who thinks that modern Europe will go smoothly, quietly on, needs a dose of your harbor to open his eyes." He turned to me with a sudden thought. "Why don't you write a book," he asked, "about this harbor you have known!" Eleanore made a quick move in her chair. "That's just what you ought to do!" she exclaimed. "I wonder if I could," I said. "It would be hard to see it now, as it looked at all the different times." "You'll hardly be able to do that," the Englishman answered quietly. "Because to each one of us, I suppose, not only his present but his past is constantly changing to his view. But I wouldn't let that bother you. What would interest me as a reader would be your view of your life as you look back upon it to-day--in this present stage of your growth. "I was raised in the Alps myself," he went on. "So _my_ picture of life is the mountain path. As I climb and turn now and then to look back, the twisting little path below appears quite different each time. But still I keep on writing--my changing view of the slope behind and of the rising peaks ahead. And now and then by working my hardest I've felt the great joy of writing the truth. As you know, it isn't easy. But year by year I've felt my readers grow in number. I believe they are going to grow and grow, not mine nor yours but the readers of all the chaps like ourselves, the readers who pick up each new book with the hope that one more fellow has done his best--not to please them but to please himself--by telling of life as he has seen it--his changing life through his changing eyes." * * * * * After he left us there was a long silence. Both of us were thinking hard. And as Eleanore looked up to the stars I saw their brightness in her eyes. "Yes," she said at last, "I'm sure. I'm sure you'd better take his advice--and write as truthfully as you can the whole story as you see it now--of this strange harbor you have known." We talked long and eagerly that night. CHAPTER VI