you feel a presentiment that your artistic future is to be shaped here;
for between these influences and the other influences that will be brought
to bear upon you, you will be forced to decide. May the God of all true
art and artists help you to make no mistake. Listen!"

As though in answer to the solemn words of the man who spoke from the
fullness of a life-long experience and from the depths of a life-old love,
a strain of music came from out the fragrant darkness. Somewhere, hidden
in the depths of the orange grove, the soul of a true musician was seeking
expression in the tones of a violin.

Softly, sadly, with poignant clearness, the music lifted into the
night--low and pleadingly at first; then stronger and more vibrant with
feeling, as though sweetly insistent in its call; swelling next in volume
and passion, as though in warning of some threatening evil; ringing with
loving fear; sobbing, wailing, moaning, in anguish; clearly, gloriously,
triumphant, at last; then sinking into solemn, reverent
benediction--losing itself, finally, in the darkness, even as it had come.

The two men, so fashioned by nature to receive such music, listened with
emotions they could not have put into words. For the moment, the music to
them was the voice of the guarding, calling, warning spirit of the
mountains that, in their calm, majestic strength, were so far removed from
the petty passions and longings of the baser world at their feet--it was
the voice of the loving intimacy, the sweet purity, and the sacred beauty
of the spirit of the garden. It was as though the things of which Conrad
Lagrange had just spoken so reverently had cried aloud to them, out of the
night, in confirmation of his words.

Chapter VII

Mrs. Taine in Quaker Gray

Aaron King seemed loth to begin his work on the portrait of Mrs. Taine.
Day after day, without apparent reason, he put it off--spending the hours
in wandering aimlessly about the place, idling on the porch, or doing
nothing in his studio. He would start from the house to the building at
the end of the rose garden, as though moved by some clearly defined
purpose--and then, for an hour or more, would dawdle among the things of
his craft, with irresolute mind--turning over his sketches and drawings
with uncertain hands, as though searching for something he knew was not
there; toying with his paints and brushes; or sitting before his empty
easel, looking away through the big window to