stale　candy　or　champagne　since　yesterday。〃
  She　drew　a　letter　with　a　foreign　postmark　from　between
  the　leaves　of　a　book　and　held　it　out；　smiling。　　〃You　got　him　to
  write　it。　　Don't　say　you　didn't；　for　it　came　direct；　you　see；　and
  the　last　address　I　gave　him　was　a　place　in　Florida。　　This　deed
  shall　be　remembered　of　you　when　I　am　with　the　just　in　Paradise。
  But　one　thing　you　did　not　ask　him　to　do；　for　you　didn't　know　about
  it。　　He　has　sent　me　his　latest　work；　the　new　sonata；　the　most
  ambitious　thing　he　has　ever　done；　and　you　are　to　play　it　for　me
  directly；　though　it　looks　horribly　intricate。　　But　first　for　the
  letter；　I　think　you　would　better　read　it　aloud　to　me。〃
  Everett　sat　down　in　a　low　chair　facing　the　window　seat　in
  which　she　reclined　with　a　barricade　of　pillows　behind　her。　　He
  opened　the　letter；　his　lashes　half…veiling　his　kind　eyes；　and　saw
  to　his　satisfaction　that　it　was　a　long　onewonderfully　tactful
  and　tender；　even　for　Adriance；　who　was　tender　with　his　valet　and
  his　stable　boy；　with　his　old　gondolier　and　the　beggar…women　who
  prayed　to　the　saints　for　him。
  The　letter　was　from　Granada；　written　in　the　Alhambra；　as　he
  sat　by　the　fountain　of　the　Patio　di　Lindaraxa。　　The　air　was
  heavy；　with　the　warm　fragrance　of　the　South　and　full　of　the　sound
  of　splashing；　running　water；　as　it　had　been　in　a　certain　old
  garden　in　Florence；　long　ago。　　The　sky　was　one　great　turquoise；
  heated　until　it　glowed。　　The　wonderful　Moorish　arches　threw
  graceful　blue　shadows　all　about　him。　　He　had　sketched　an　outline
  of　them　on　the　margin　of　his　notepaper。　　The　subtleties　of　Arabic
  decoration　had　cast　an　unholy　spell　over　him；　and　the　brutal
  exaggerations　of　Gothic　art　were　a　bad　dream；　easily　forgotten。
  The　Alhambra　itself　had；　from　the　first；　seemed　perfectly
  familiar　to　him；　and　he　knew　that　he　must　have　trod　that　court；
  sleek　and　brown　and　obsequious；　centuries　before　Ferdinand　rode
  into　Andalusia。　　The　letter　was　full　of　confidences　about　his
  work；　and　delicate　allusions　to　their　old　happy　days　of　study　and
  comradeship；　and　of　her　own　work；　still　so　warmly　remembered　and
  appreciatively　discussed　everywhere　he　went。
  As　Everett　folded　the　letter　he　felt　that　Adriance　had
  divined　the　thing　needed　and　had　risen　to　it　in　his　own　wonderful
  way。　　The　letter　was　consistently　egotistical　and　seemed　to　him
  even　a　trifle　patronizing；　yet　it　was　just　what　she　had
  wanted。　　A　strong　realization　of　his　brother's　charm　and　intensity
  and　power　came　over　him；　he　felt　the　breath　of　that　whirlwind　of
  flame　in　which　Adriance　passed；　consuming　all　in　his　path；　and
  himself　even　more　resolutely　than　he　consumed　others。　　Then　he
  looked　down　at　this　white；　burnt…out　brand　that　lay　before　him。
  〃Like　him；　isn't　it？〃　she　said；　quietly。
  〃I　think　I　can　scarcely　answer　his　letter；　but　when　you　see
  him　next　you　can　do　that　for　me。　　I　want　you　to　tell　him　many
  things　for　me；　yet　they　can　all　be　summed　up　in　this：　I　want　him
  to　grow　wholly　into　his　best　and　greatest　self；　even　at　the　cost
  of　the　dear　boyishness　that　is　half　his　charm　to　you　and　me。　　Do
  you　understand　me？〃
  〃I　know　perfectly　well　what　you　mean；〃　answered　Everett；
  thoughtfully。　　〃I　have　often　felt　so　about　him　myself。　　And　yet
  it's　difficult　to　prescribe　for　those　fellows；　so　little　makes；
  so　little　mars。〃
  Katharine　raised　herself　upon　her　elbow；　and　her　face
  flushed　with　feverish　earnestness。　　〃Ah；　but　it　is　the　waste　of
  himself　that　I　mean；　his　lashing　himself　out　on　stupid　and
  uncomprehending　people　until　they　take　him　at　their　own　estimate。
  He　can　kindle　marble；　strike　fire　from　putty；　but　is　it　worth
  what　it　costs　him？〃
  〃Come；　come；〃　expostulated　Everett；　alarmed　at　her　excitement。
  〃Where　is　the　new　sonata？　　Let　him　speak　for　himself。〃
  He　sat　down　at　the　piano　and　began　playing　the　first
  movement；　which　was　indeed　the　voice　of　Adriance；　his　proper
  speech。　　The　sonata　was　the　most　ambitious　work　he　had　done　up　to
  that　time　and　marked　the　transition　from　his　purely　lyric　vein　to
  a　deeper　and　nobler　style。　　Everett　played　intelligently　and　with
  that　sympathetic　comprehension　which　seems　peculiar　to　a　certain
  lovable　class　of　men　who　never　accomplish　anything　in　particular。
  When　he　had　finished　he　turned　to　Katharine。
  〃How　he　has　grown！〃　she　cried。　　〃What　the　three　last　years　have
  done　for　him！　　He　used　to　write　only　the　tragedies　of　passion；　but
  this　is　the　tragedy　of　the　soul；　the　shadow　coexistent　with　the
  soul。　　This　is　the　tragedy　of　effort　and　failure；　the　thing　Keats
  called　hell。　　This　is　my　tragedy；　as　I　lie　here　spent　by　the
  racecourse；　listening　to　the　feet　of　the　runners　as　they　pass　me。
  Ah；　God！　　The　swift　feet　of　the　runners！〃
  She　turned　her　face　away　and　covered　it　with　her　straining
  hands。　　Everett　crossed　over　to　her　quickly　and　knelt　beside　her。
  In　all　the　days　he　had　known　her　she　had　never　before；　beyond　an
  occasional　ironical　jest；　given　voice　to　the　bitterness　of　her
  own　defeat。　　Her　courage　had　become　a　point　of　pride　with　him；
  and　to　see　it　going　sickened　him。
  〃Don't　do　it；〃　he　gasped。　　〃I　can't　stand　it；　I　really
  can't；　I　feel　it　too　much。　　We　mustn't　speak　of　that；　it's　too
  tragic　and　too　vast。〃
  When　she　turned　her　face　back　to　him　there　was　a　ghost　of　the　old；
  brave；　cynical　smile　on　it；　more　bitter　than　the　tears　she　could
  not　shed。　　〃No；　I　won't　be　so　ungenerous；　I　will　save　that　for　the
  watches　of　the　night　when　I　have　no　better　company。　　Now　you　may
  mix　me　another　drink　of　some　sort。　　Formerly；　when　it　was　not
  if　I　should　ever　sing　Brunnhilde；　but　quite　simply　when　I
  should　sing　Brunnhilde；　I　was　always　starving　myself　and
  thinking　what　I　might　drink　and　what　I　might　not。　　But　broken　music
  boxes　may　drink　whatsoever　they　list；　and　no　one　cares　whether　they
  lose　their　figure。　　Run　over　that　theme　at　the　beginning　again。
  That；　at　least；　is　not　new。　　It　was　running　in　his　head　when　we
  were　in　Venice　years　ago；　and　he　used　to　drum　it　on　his　glass　at
  the　dinner　table。　　He　had　just　begun　to　work　it　out　when　the　late
  autumn　came　on；　and　the　paleness　of　the　Adriatic　oppressed　him；
  and　he　decided　to　go　to　Florence　for　the　winter；　and　lost　touch
  with　the　theme　during　his　illness。　　Do　you　remember　those
  frightful　days？　　All　the　people　who　have　loved　him　are　not　strong
  enough　to　save　him　from　himself！　　When　I　got　word　from　Florence
  that　he　had　been　ill　I　was　in　Nice　filling　a　concert　engagement。
  His　wife　was　hurrying　to　him　from　Paris；　but　I　reached　him　first。
  I　arrived　at　dusk；　in　a　terrific　storm。　　They　had　taken　an　old
  palace　there　for　the　winter；　and　I　found　him　in　the　librarya
  long；　dark　room　full　of　old　Latin　books　and　heavy　furniture　and
  bronzes。　　He　was　sitting　by　a　wood　fire　at　one　end　of　the　room；
  looking；　oh；　so　worn　and　pale！as　he　always　does　when　he　is　ill；
  you　know。　　Ah；　it　is　so　good　that　you　do　know！　　Even
  his　red　smoking　jacket　lent　no　color　to　his　face。　　His　first　words
  were　not　to　tell　me　how　ill　he　had　been；　but　that　that　morning　he
  had　been　well　enough　to　put　the　last　strokes　to　the　score　of　his
  Souvenirs　d'Automne。　　He　was　as　I　most　like　to　remember　him：
  so　calm　and　happy　and　tired；　not　gay；　as　he　usually　is；　but　just
  contented　and　tired　with　that　heavenly　tiredness　that　comes　after
  a　good　work　done　at　last。　　Outside；　the　rain　poured　down　in
  torrents；　and　the　wind　moaned　for　the　pain　of　all　the　world　and
  sobbed　in　the　branches　of　the　shivering　olives　and　about　the　walls
  of　that　desolated　old　palace。　　How　that　night　comes　back　to　me！
  There　were　no　lights　in　the　room；　only　the　wood　fire　which　glowed
  upon　the　hard　features　of　the　bronze　Dante；　like　the　reflection　of
  purgatorial　flames；　and　threw　long　black　shadows　about　us；　beyond
  us　it　scarcely　penetrated　the　gloom　at　all；　Adriance　sat　staring　at
  the　fire　with　the　weariness　of　all　his　life　in　his　eves；　and　of　all
  the　other　lives　that　must　aspire　and　suffer　to　make　up　one　such
  life　as　his。　　Somehow　the　wind　with　all　its　world…pain　had　got　into
  the　room；　and　the　cold　rain　was　in　our　eyes；　and　the　wave　came　up
  in　both　of　us　at　oncethat　awful；　vague；　universal　pain；　that
  cold　fear　of　life　and　death　and　God　and　hopeand　we　were　like
  two　clinging　together　on　a　spar　in　midocean　after　the　shipwreck
  of　everything。　　Then　we　heard　the　front　door　open　with　a　great
  gust　of　wind　that　shook