The Stranger points out to him that he is illogical; such memories would have included long vistas of meagre dinners in dingy restaurants, of attic studios, of a life the chief part of which had been passed amid ugly surroundings. It was to escape from all such that he had clamoured. The Poet is silent. “I asked but for recognition,” cries the Musician, “that men might listen to me; not for my music to be taken from me in exchange for the recompense of a successful tradesman. My inspiration is burnt out; I feel it. The music that once filled my soul is mute.” “It was born of the strife and anguish,” the Stranger tells him, “of the loves that died, of the hopes that faded, of the beating of youth’s wings against the bars of sorrow, of the glory and madness and torment called Life, of the struggle you shrank from facing.” The Poet takes up the tale. “You have robbed us of Life,” he cries. “You tell us of dead lips whose kisses we have never felt, of songs of victory sung to our deaf ears. You have taken our fires, you have left us but the ashes.” “The fires that scorch and sear,” the Stranger adds, “the lips that cried in their pain, the victory bought of wounds.” “It is not yet too late,” the Stranger tells them. “All this can be but a troubled dream, growing fainter with each waking moment. Will you buy back your Youth at the cost of ease? Will you buy back Life at the price of tears?” They cry with one voice, “Give us back our Youth with its burdens, and a heart to bear them! Give us back Life with its mingled bitter and sweet!” Then suddenly the Stranger stands revealed before them. They see that he is Life—Life born of battle, Life made strong by endeavour, Life learning song from suffering. There follows more talk; which struck me, when I read the story, as a mistake; for all that he tells them they have now learnt: that life to be enjoyed must be lived; that victory to be sweet must be won. They awake in the dingy _café_ in the Rue St. Louis. The ancient waiter is piling up the chairs preparatory to closing the shutters. The Poet draws forth his small handful of coins; asks what is to pay. “Nothing,” the waiter answers. A stranger who sat with them and talked awhile before they fell asleep has paid the bill. They look at one another, but no one speaks. The streets are empty. A thin rain is falling. They turn up the collars of their coats; strike out into the night. And as their footsteps echo on the glistening pavement it comes to each of them that they are walking with a new, brave step. I feel so sorry for Dick—for the tens of thousands of happy, healthy, cared-for lads of whom Dick is the type. There must be millions of youngsters in the world who have never known hunger, except as an appetiser to their dinner; who have never felt what it was to be tired, without the knowledge that a comfortable bed was awaiting them.