"I can grant that the saints were always profoundly happy. Let me tell you why. The state of the saint is one of dependence. His convictions, therefore, are enduring and unclouded. He accepts his trials as privileges; he loses all sense of his own identity; his humanity is merged in God; his ecstasies lift him up to heaven and bring him down to a transfigured earth. He has been bought with a ransom, and he is the co-heir with Christ. He is found worthy of suffering. But with artists, all is different. The saint is in search of holiness. The artist thinks chiefly of beauty. Holiness is a state of mind--it is something permanent. Beauty, however, mocks one half the time--it may be a deception. Anyhow, one cannot define it, or keep it, or even satisfactorily catch it. Our inspired moments, therefore, alternate with a miserable knowledge of our individual wretchedness. We learn that we are no stronger than our individuality. That is the barrier between us and our visions. The saint has God before his eyes, and he carries Him in his heart. The artist sees only himself and bears only the weight of his own incompetence. But these, darling, are not the things I meant to say to you, although they may explain my life. The common run of people wouldn't understand all this in the least." "I want to hear all--I want to enter into all your thoughts, David. I have always known that those who devote themselves to the study of what is sublime and beautiful suffer proportionately from the squalor of actual facts." She quoted from one or her father's speeches which he invariably gave with much earnestness at the opening of schools of art and similar institutions. "The world," replied Rennes, "rewards the beautiful only inasmuch as it flatters the senses, and the sublime remains--so far as the general taste is concerned--altogether without response." "But one would think," said Agnes, "that you were a disappointed or an unsuccessful man, whereas every one admires your genius." He laughed at her practical bent, which seemed the more fascinating because of her picturesque appearance. "One often feels cast down without the least cause," said he; "the truth is we all want more praise than we get. We are a vain lot, that's the trouble. Let me paint myself in the blackest colours. You must know the worst--you must realise the bad bargain you may make. Reckage would never bore and tire you in this way. How can you care for me?" "It _is_ hard!" she said, smiling. "Darling! Do you remember the white violets at Woodbridge, and sitting on that gate looking across that deep valley at the bonfires? Wasn't it perfect? Look through these trees now--see the flames and smoke? They are burning dead leaves and twigs. I wish I could burn my past. This may be a good omen for me. But I must not deceive you; that would be a bad beginning."