“And there, Brian, dear, is your answer,” said Auntie Sue, as Judy left the room. “Any book has meaning only for those who have the peculiar sympathy and understanding needed to interpret it. A book that means nothing to one may be rich in meaning for another. Every writer writes for his own peculiar readers, just as every individual has his own peculiar friends.” “Or enemies,” said Brian. “Or enemies,” agreed Auntie Sue. Brian went to the window, and stood for some time, looking out into the night. Then turning, with a nervous gesture, he paced uneasily up and down the room; while Auntie Sue watched him in silence with an expression of loving concern on her dear old face. At last, she spoke: “Why, Brian, what is the matter? What have I said? I did not mean to upset you like this. Come, sit down here, and tell me about it. What is it troubles you so?” With a short laugh, Brian came and stood before her. “I suppose it had to come sooner or later, Auntie Sue. I have been trying for days to muster up courage enough to tell you about it. You have touched the one biggest thing in my life.” “Why, what do you mean, Brian?” “I mean just what we have been talking about,--writing,” answered Brian. “Oh!” she cried, with quick and delighted triumph. “Then I AM right. You have been thinking about it, too.” “Thinking about it!” he echoed, and in his voice she felt the nervous intensity of his mood. “I have thought of nothing else. All day long when I am at work, I am writing, writing, writing. It is the last thing on my mind when I go to sleep. I dream about it all night. And, it is the first thing I think about in the morning.” Auntie Sue clasped her hands to her heart with an exclamation of joyous interest. Brian, with a quiet smile at her enthusiasm, went on: “I know exactly what I want to say, and why I want to say it. There is a world of people, Auntie Sue, whose lives have been broken and spoiled by one thing or another, and who have more or less cut themselves loose from everything, and are just drifting, they don't care a hang where, because they think they have failed so completely that there is nothing more in life for them. People like me,--I don't mean thieves and criminals necessarily,--who have had that which they know to be the best and biggest and truest part of themselves tortured and warped and twisted and denied and smashed and beaten and betrayed and killed; and who, because they feel that their real selves are dead within them, don't care what happens to that part which is left.” He was walking the floor again now, and speaking with a depth of feeling which he had never before revealed to his gentle companion.