Moonson listened to the writer's thoughts in heart-stricken silence--thoughts so tragic they seemed out of keeping with the natural and beautiful rhythms of his speech. He had never imagined that a sensitive and imaginative man--an artist--could be so completely abandoned by the society his genius had helped to enrich. Back and forth the writer paced, baring his inmost thoughts ... His wife was desperately ill and the future looked completely black. How could he summon the strength of will to go on, let alone to write? He said fiercely, "It's all right for you to talk--" He stopped, seeming to realize for the first time that the big man sitting in an easy chair by the window had made no attempt to speak. It seemed incredible, but the big man had listened in complete silence, and with such quiet assurance that his silence had taken on an eloquence that inspired absolute trust. He had always known there were a few people like that in the world, people whose sympathy and understanding you could take for granted. There was a fearlessness in such people which made them stand out from the crowd, stone-markers in a desert waste to lend assurance to a tired wayfarer by its sturdy permanence, its sun-mirroring strength. There were a few people like that in the world but you sometimes went a lifetime without meeting one. The big man sat there smiling at him, calmly exuding the serenity of one who has seen life from its tangled, inaccessible roots outward and testifies from experience that the entire growth is sound. The writer stopped pacing suddenly and drew himself erect. As he stared into the big man's eyes his fears seemed to fade away. Confidence returned to him like the surge of the sea in great shining waves of creativeness. * * * * * He knew suddenly that he could lose himself in his work again, could tap the bright resonant bell of his genius until its golden voice rang out through eternity. He had another great book in him and it would get written now. It would get written ... "You've helped me!" he almost shouted. "You've helped me more than you know. I can't tell you how grateful I am to you. You don't know what it means to be so paralyzed with fright that you can't write at all!" The Man from Time was silent but his eyes shone curiously. The writer turned to a bookcase and removed a volume in a faded cover that had once been bright with rainbow colors. He sat down and wrote an inscription on the flyleaf. Then he rose and handed the book to his visitor with a slight bow. He was smiling now. "This was my first-born!" he said. The Man from Time looked at the title first ... THIS SIDE OF PARADISE. Then he opened the book and read what the author had written on the flyleaf: _With warm gratefulness for a courage which brought back the sun._ _F. Scott Fitzgerald._ Moonson bowed his thanks, turned and left the cabin.