I looked at the little body of him, at the innocence of the eyes and mouth, all untouched by the world--so pure and yet crying out in pain because he had taken so long on the quest.... His eighth year brought Tom into regular boyhood. The young brain, always before silently giving way to intuition, began to speak for itself. This stage is as important perhaps, but not so beautiful as when the hushedness and glowing of the Unseen touches a child. Here we turned from Tom, and the things that creep into the heart of almost every boy of the same age, crept into Tom's heart. He forgot the fairies--they ceased to call. He forgot the wide roads of peace and purity. He seemed to forget that the Master was still waiting so patiently on the hill for him to open and receive. But we knew better than that. The development of the brain always robs a child of the inner glowing for a time, but it all comes back again with a great dimension added; the instrument is then keen and direct--a power in itself. We turned from Tom--a young brain standing alone, very conscious of itself, is anything but interesting. At the time we were in the turmoil of departure, each of us thinking in different ways about the long journey just ahead, and the wonder of being at last in California. Tom was more or less his own director those days. He fell into crime, looted the house of a friend, denied everything. He was sent to his quarters to stay until he found himself again. It took a week exactly, but he found a deep happiness in being alone in the little room before he left it. It did him as much good as the long days in the sunlight ever could; he came out pale and wide eyed, and the breath of a soul was in the room when he entered. One day out of his long week, I went to him. The sun had gone down behind a nest of grey clouds. Dusk had almost deepened into darkness, but there was no light in his room. He sat there, his eyes staring ahead of him, his hands folded tightly in his lap. I walked in quietly and sat down beside him. I was not even noticed; he was lost in his thought. At last I asked, "Tom, what did you find so interesting in that cheap business?" "I haven't found out yet," he said grimly. "Have you been thinking about it?" "Sure have. Been thinking all day." "Has nothing come?" "No, but it's coming soon. It can't take long if I stay here like this, wishing and pulling every minute." "Of course it can't." He continued to stare into the darkness ahead. "What does it feel like, Tom?" I asked. "Your soul leaves you.... Your soul won't stay if you are going back." "Going back?" "Yes. I mean if you have been big and listened to its voice, and then stop. If you are _less_ than yourself after you've been _more_, your soul won't stay." "What do you do when your soul leaves you?" "You walk the Black Path." He looked a child seraph. "That path is not interesting, is it?"