, as the years go, into the most despicable of
places--the place of a human parasite that, contributing nothing to the
wealth of the race, feeds upon the strength of the multitude of toilers
who pass him by. But ambition, my boy, is like to all the other gifts that
lead men Godward. It must be a noble ambition, nobly controlled. A mere
striving for place and power, without a saving sense of the responsibility
conferred by that place and power, is ignoble. Such an ambition, I
know--as you will some day come to understand--is not a blessing but a
curse. It is the curse from which our age is suffering sorely; and which,
if it be not lifted, will continue to vitiate the strength and poison the
life of the race.

"Because I would have your ambition, a safe and worthy ambition, Aaron, I
ask that the supreme and final test of any work that comes from your hand
may be this; that it satisfy you, yourself--that you may be not ashamed to
sit down alone with your work, and thus to look it squarely in the face.
Not critics, nor authorities, not popular opinion, not even law or
religion, must be the court of final appeal when you are, by what you do,
brought to bar; but by you, _yourself_, the judgment must be rendered. And
this, too, is true, my son, by that judgment and that judgment alone, you
will truly live or you will truly die."

"And that"--said the novelist--so famous in the eyes of the world, so
infamous in his own sight--"and that is what she tried to make me believe,
when she and I were young together. But I would not. I would not accept
it. I thought if I could win fame that she--" he checked himself suddenly.

"But you have led me to accept it, old man," cried the artist heartily.
"You have opened my eyes. You have helped me to understand my mother, as I
never could have understood her, alone."

Conrad Lagrange smiled. "Perhaps," he admitted whimsically. "No doubt good
may sometimes be accomplished by the presentation of a horrible example.
But go on with your private exhibition. I'll not keep you longer. Come,
Czar."

In spite of the artist's protests, he left the studio.

While the painter was putting away his letters, the novelist and the dog
went through the rose garden and the orange grove, straight to the little
house next door. They walked as though on a definite mission.

Sibyl and Myra Willard were sitting on the porch.

"Howdy, neighbor," called the girl, as the tall, ungainly form of the
famous noveli