“There may be other senses than ours which bring the same message. Helen Keller hears and sees it with her fingers in her world of darkness. “Throughout the centuries,” I went on, “in all beginnings and primitive times, art was the expression of religion. The first rude drawings were religious symbols; drama and the dance and music were religious; and all the oldest literature in the world, the Vedas, the Bible, and the old Scandinavian myths were religious books: the Greek drama, and—can you think of others?” They brought forth many instances; Marian mentioned the English miracle plays, and Virginia spoke of American Indian drawings, saying, however, that they were more often used for communication. I showed her how the first rude figures of animals, the totems, for instance, were also used as religious symbols. I spoke, too, of the way in which art related us with great minds in ages past. “Ruskin mentions that,” said Ruth and Marian. “But it is a one-sided relation,” I said, “for we cannot speak to them.” “I wish we could,” answered Marian. “I so often wish I could ask them questions.” We said again how hard it was, when asked, to explain to outsiders the purpose of our club. Ruth said: “When I try to tell people, they answer: ‘Oh, yes, I suppose you just talk nonsense, and have a good time.’” Marian said people wondered that she was willing to stay in-doors on Sunday afternoons. Virginia said: “I don’t tell any one of it.” I suggested to them that if one got a perfect standard of beauty in art, it might be all one would need as a moral standard to make one’s life beautiful in the same way. Now we spoke of the novel. I said I had noticed that last week when I told them of completeness in novels and plays, they seemed not to know just what I meant. Florence said she knew. “It means,” she said, “that every word and every person and every incident must count. It must not be like life, where distracting and unimportant things are always happening.” “Just so,” I answered. She had learned all that from brother Arthur. I went over it more explicitly, citing instances, and then told them that we were all of us story-tellers, in the sense that we tried to make every story complete. “In telling anything that has happened,” I said, “we naturally leave out anything that has no effect on the story.” “And,” added Florence, “we unconsciously make up little details that help to fill out the story.” “Now,” said Marian, “I think I must forgive some one I know, who is always exaggerating.” “I know some one who does it all the time,” said Florence. “I don’t think that makes it right, though,” Ruth protested. “No,” I answered, “not right, but not wrong, either. When we realize the artist’s tendency in us all to turn everything into a story, first, we will not judge people harshly for doing it, and, second, we will be careful when we are trying to tell the truth, not to allow ourselves to be cheated by the artist in us.”