“Here comes Henrik,” he replied. “Run in to your babies.” He watched her swinging steps as, after a farewell kiss, she sped down the little path. IV Stefan's moods were not always calm. He had his hours of fierce rebellion, when he felt he could not endure another moment with his deadened carcass; when, without life, it seemed so much better to die. He had days of passionate longing for the world, for love, for everything he had lost. Mary fell into the habit of borrowing the Farradays' car when she saw such a mood approaching, and sending Stefan for long drives alone. The rushing flight seldom failed to carry him beyond the reach of his black mood. Returning, he would plunge into work, and the next day would find him calm and smiling once again. He suffered much pain from his back, but this he bore with admirable patience. “It's nothing,” he would say, “compared to the black devils.” Stefan's courage was enormously fortified by the success of his drawings, which created little less than a sensation. Reproductions of them appeared for some weeks in The Household Review, and were recopied everywhere. The originals were exhibited by Constantine in November. “Here,” wrote one of the most distinguished critics in New York, himself a painter of repute, “we have work which outranks even Mr. Byrd's celebrated Danaë, and in my judgment far surpasses any of the artist's other achievements. I have watched the development of this young American genius with the keenest interest. I placed him in the first rank as a technichian, but his work--with the exception of the Danaë--appeared to me to lack substance and insight. It was brilliant, but too spectacular. Even his Danaë, though on a surprising inspirational plane, had a quality high rather than profound, I doubted if Mr. Byrd had the stuff of which great art is made, but after seeing his war drawings, I confess myself mistaken. If I were to sum up my impression of them I should say that on the battlefield Mr. Byrd has discovered the one thing his work lacked--soul.” Stefan read this eulogy with a humorous grin. “I expect the fellow's right,” he said. “I don't think my soul was as strong on wings in the old days as my brush was. Without joking, though,” he went on, suddenly grave, “I don't know if there is such a thing as a soul, but if there is, such splendid ones were being spilled out there that I think, perhaps, Mary, I may have picked a bit of one up.” “Dearest,” said Mary, with a kiss of comprehension, “I'm so proud of you. You are great, a great artist, and a great spirit.” And she kissed him again, her eyes shining.