al activity. And if," he added slowly, "if one's pain is for others
more than for oneself, if in one's heart Humanity has lodged itself, then
it may be that one shall feel and know. And from that time you never
doubt God. You may doubt yourself but never that all things work together
for good."

"I do not see it," cried Nellie.

"Hush!" said Connie. "Go on, Geisner."

"To me," the little man went on, as if talking rather to himself than to
the others. "To me the Purpose of Life is self-consciousness, the total
Purpose I mean. God seeking to know God. Eternal Force one immeasurable
Thought. Humanity the developing consciousness of the little fragment of
the universe within our ken. Art, the expression of that consciousness,
the outward manifestation of the effort to solve the problem of Life.
Genius, the power of expressing in some way or other what many thought
but could not articulate. I do not mean to be dogmatic. Words fail us to
define our meaning when we speak of these things. Any quibbler can twist
the meaning of words, while only those who think the thought can
understand. That is why one does not speak much of them. Perhaps we
should speak of them more."

"It is a barren faith to me," said Nellie.

"Then I do not express it well," said Geisner. "But is it more
barren-sounding than utter Negation? Besides, where do we differ really?
All of us who think at all agree more or less. We use different terms,
pursue different lines of thought, that is all. It is only the dullard,
who mistakes the symbol for the idea, the letter for the spirit, the
metaphor for the thought within, who is a bigot. The true thinker is an
artist, the true artist is a thinker, for Art is the expression of
thought in thing. The highest thought, as Connie rightly told us before
you came, is Emotion."

"I recollect the Venus in the Louvre," interjected Harry. "When I saw it
first it seemed to me most beautiful, perfect, the loveliest thing that
ever sculptor put chisel to. But as I saw it more I forgot that it was
beautiful or perfect. It grew on me till it lived. I went day after day
to see it, and when I was glad it laughed at me, and when I was
downhearted it was sad with me, and when I was angry it scowled, and when
I dreamed of Love it had a kiss on its lips. Every mood of mine it
changed with; every thought of mine it knew. Was not that Art, Nellie?"

"The artist in you," she answered.

"No. More than that. The artist in the scul