No,"--said the older man, so softly that the other, torn by the passion
of his own thoughts, did not hear,--"No, Aaron, your mother will not be
disappointed."

For a time longer they sat in silence. Then the young man said, "I wish I
knew the name of my mother's friend--the one who suffered the heaviest
loss through my father, and who so generously protected her in the crisis.
I would like to thank him, at least. I begged her to tell me, but she
would not. She said he would not want me to know--that for me to attempt
to reimburse him would, to his mind, rob him of his real reward."

Conrad Lagrange, his head bowed, spoke quietly to the dog at his feet.
Rising, Czar laid his soft muzzle on his master's knee and looked up into
the homely, world-worn face. Gently, the strange man--so lonely and
embittered in the fame that he had won--at a price--stroked the brown
head. "Your mother knew best, Aaron," he said slowly, without looking at
his companion. "You must believe that she knew best. Her beautiful spirit
could not lead her astray. She was right in this, also. Your sentiment
does you honor, but you must respect her wish. Whoever the man was--she
had reasons, I am sure, for feeling as she did--that it would be better
for you not to know. It was some one, perhaps, whose influence upon you,
she had cause to fear."

"It was very strange," returned the artist, hesitatingly. "Perhaps I ought
not to say it. But I felt that, as you suggest, she feared for me to know.
She seemed to want to tell me, but did not, for _my_ sake. It was very
strange."

Conrad Lagrange made no reply.

"I wanted you to know about mother,"--continued the artist,--"because I
would like you to understand why--why I must succeed in my work."

The older man smiled to himself, in the dusk. "I have always known why
you must succeed, Aaron," he returned. "I have never questioned your
motives. I question only your understanding of success. I question--if you
will pardon me--your understanding of your mother's wish for you."

Then, in one of those rare momentary moods, when he seemed to reveal to
his young friend his real nature that lay so deeply hidden from the world,
he added, "You are right, Aaron. This place _is_ haunted--haunted by the
spirit of the mountains, yonder--haunted by the spirit of the rose garden,
out there. The silent strength of the hills, and the loveliness of the
garden will attend you in your studio, as you work. I do not wonder that