“Why, Auntie Sue,” he said, turning back to the old gentlewoman,--and his face was radiant with the earnestness of this thought,--“Auntie Sue, there are as many currents in our river out there as there are human lives. A comparatively few great main or dominant currents in the river flow--a comparatively few great dominant currents in the river flow of life. But if you look closer, you will see that in each one of those established principal currents there are countless thousands--millions--of tiny currents all turning and twisting across, and back, and up, and down in every direction,--weaving themselves together,--pulling themselves apart,--criss-crossing, clashing,--interlacing,--tangled and confused,--and these are the individual lives. And no matter what the conflict or confusion; no matter what direction they take for the moment, they all, ALL, go to make up the river;--they, all together, ARE the river,--and they all together move onward,--ceaselessly, inevitably, irresistibly.” He paused to stand smiling down at her, as she sat there in her low chair beside the table with the lamplight on her silvery hair,--there in the little log house by the river. “That is what you have made your river mean to me, Auntie Sue; and that is what I would give to the world.” With trembling hands, the gentle old teacher reached for her handkerchief, which lay in the sewing-basket on the table beside her. Smilingly, she wiped away the tears that filled her eyes. Lovingly, she looked up at him,--standing so tall and strong before her, with his reddish hair tumbled and tossed, and his Irish blue eyes lighted with the fire of his inspiration. “Well,” she said, at last, “why don't you do it, Brian?” As a breath of air puts out the light of a candle, so the light went from Brian Kent's face. Dropping into his chair, he answered hopelessly, “Because I am afraid.” “Afraid?” echoed Auntie Sue, troubled and amazed. “What in the world are you afraid of, Brian?” And the bitter, bitter answer came, “I am afraid of another failure.” Auntie Sue's quick mind caught the significance of his words. “ANOTHER failure, Brian? Then you,--then you have written before?” “Yes,” he returned. And not since his decision to remain with her had she seen him so despondent. “To write was the dream and the passion of my life. I tried and tried. God, how I worked and slaved at it! The only result from my efforts was the hell from which you dragged me.” Alter a little silence, Auntie Sue said gently: “I don't think I understand, Brian. You have never told me about your trouble, you know.” “It is an old, old story,” he returned. “I am only one of thousands. My wretched experience is not at all uncommon.” “I know,” she answered. “But don't you think that perhaps you had better tell me? Perhaps, in the mere telling of it to me, now that it is all over, you may find the real reason for--for what happened to you.”