rysanthemums. Perished, and became an English immortal--his sins
erased by his unconscious sacrifice. Perished, and was forgiven by
Dagmar. Yet hers was the victory--he belonged to her at last. She had
not buried his body at Broadenham, but she had buried his work there.
He could never write again....

During those days of posthumous whitewashing he read the papers with a
certain contemptuous eagerness. Some of them he crumpled between his
hands and threw away. He hated his own image, staring balefully from
the first page of the illustrated reviews. He despised England for
honouring him. Once, happening upon a volume of the "Vision of
Helen"--the first edition illustrated by Beardsley--in a book-stall at
Aix-les-Bains, he read it from cover to cover.

"Poor stuff," he said to the bookseller, tossing it down again. "Give
me 'Ars ne Lupin'." And he paid two sous for a paper-covered,
dog-eared, much-thumbed copy of the famous detective story, not
because he intended to read it, but in payment for his hour of
disillusionment. Then he slung his pack over his shoulders and tramped
out into the country. He laughed aloud at the thought of Helen and her
idolaters. A poetic hoax. Overripe words. Seductive sounds. Nonsense!

"Surely I can do better than that to-day," he thought.

He saw two children working in a field, and called to them.

"If you will give me a cup of cold water," he said, "I'll tell you a
story."

"Gladly, monsieur."

The boy put down his spade, went to a brook which threaded the field
and came back with an earthenware jug full to the brim. The little
girl stared gravely at Grimshaw while he drank. Grimshaw wiped his
mouth with the back of his hand.

"What story shall it be?" he demanded.

The little girl said quickly: "The black king and the white princess
and the beast who lived in the wood."

"Not that one," the boy cried. "Tell us about a battle."

"I will sing about life," Grimshaw said.

It was hot in the field. A warm, sweet smell rose from the spaded
earth and near by the brook rustled through the grass like a beautiful
silver serpent. Grimshaw sat cross-legged on the ground and words spun
from his lips--simple words. And he sang of things he had recently
learned--the gaiety of birds, the strength of his arms, the scent of
dusk, the fine crystal of a young moon, wind in a field of wheat....

At first the children listened. Then, because he talked so long, the
little girl leaned slowly ove