"Do you think I could write?" Randy had asked one of his teachers, coming verse-saturated to the question. The man had looked at him with somber eyes. "You have an ear for it--and an eye---- But genius pays a price." "What do you mean?" "It shows its heart to the world, dissects its sacred thoughts, has no secrets----" "But think of leaving a thing behind you like--'To Helen----'" "Do you think the knowledge that he had written a few bits of incomparable verse helped Poe to live? If he had invented a pill or a headache powder, he would have slept on down and have dined from gold dishes." "I'd rather write 'Ulalume' than dine from gold dishes." "You think that now. But in twenty years you will sigh for a--feather bed----" "You don't believe that." There had come a lighting of the somber eyes. "My dear fellow, if you, by the grace of God, have it in you to write, what I believe won't have anything to do with it. You will crucify yourself for the sake of a line--starve for the love of a rhythm." Randy had not yet starved for love of a rhythm, but he had lost sleep during those nights in France, trying to put into words the things that gripped his soul. There had been beauty as well as horror in those days. What a world it had been, a world of men--a striving, eager group, raised for the moment above sordidness, above self---- He had not found verse his medium, although he had drunk eagerly of the golden cups which others had to offer him. But his prose had gained because of his belief in beauty of structure and of singing lovely words. As yet he had nothing to show for his pains, but practice had given strength to his pen--he felt that some day with the right theme he might do--wonders---- The trees had again closed in about him. A shadow flitted by--a fox, unafraid and in search of a belated meal. Randy remembered the days when he and Becky had thought that there might be wolves in the forest. He laughed a little, recalling Becky's words. "Sister Loretto has the feeling that the world is a dark forest, and that I am Red Riding Hood." Was it that which had brought him back? Was there, indeed, a Wolf? When he reached Huntersfield, and the dogs barked, he had feared for the moment discovery. He was saved, however, by the friendly silence which followed that first note of alarm. The dogs knew him and followed him with wagging tails as he skirted the lawn and came at last to the gate which had closed a few minutes before on Dalton's car. He saw the Judge go in, Aunt Claudia, Becky--shadowy figures between the white pillars. Then, after a moment, a room on the second floor was illumined. The shade was up and he saw the interior as one sees the scene of a play. There was the outline of a rose-colored canopy, the gleam of a mirror, the shine of polished wood, and in the center, Becky in pale blue, with a candle in her hand.