of the gods and those of men. If, in the
fulfillment of that destiny, the shallop of his own lesser talent and
influence might act as convoy and guide, luring the greater craft into
wider voyaging, he would be satisfied. Just now, that guidance ought
to be away from the Marston influence where lay ultimate danger and
limitation. He was glad that where people discussed Frederick Marston
they also discussed his foremost disciple. Marston himself had loomed
large in the star-chart of painting only a dozen years ago, and was
now the greatest of luminaries. His follower had been known less than
half that long. If he were to surpass the man he was now content to
follow, he must break away from Marston-worship and let his maturer
efforts be his own--his ultimate style his own. Prophets and artists
have from the beginning of time arisen from second place to a
preeminent first--pupils have surpassed their teachers. He had hoped
that these months in a new type of country and landscape would
slowly, almost insensibly, wean Saxon away from the influence that had
made his greatness and now in turn threatened to limit its scope.

The cabin to which he brought his guest was itself a reflection of
Steele's whim. Fashioned by its original and unimaginative builders
only as a shelter, with no thought of appearances, it remained, with
its dark logs and white "chinking," a thing of picturesque beauty. Its
generous stone chimneys and wide hearths were reminders of the ancient
days. Across its shingled roof, the sunlight was spotted with shadows
thrown down from beeches and oaks that had been old when the Indian
held the country and the buffalo gathered at the salt licks. Vines of
honeysuckle and morning-glory had partly preempted the walls. Inside
was the odd mingling of artistic junk that characterizes the den of
the painter.

Saxon's enthusiasm had been growing that morning since the automobile
had left the city behind and pointed its course toward the line of
knobs. The twenty-mile run had been a panorama sparkling with the life
of color, tempered with tones of richness and soft with haunting
splendor. Forest trees, ancient as Druids, were playing at being young
in the almost shrill greens of their leafage. There were youth and
opulence in the way they filtered the sun through their gnarled
branches with a splattering and splashing of golden light. Blossoming
dogwood spread clusters of white amid endless shades and conditions of
green,