ventor did not speak. And so Mr. Bartlett continued:
"There's a man's state of health, his sympathies, his hereditary
tendencies; all to be considered."

"Well, you see," Mr. Procter answered at last, "the elements you
enumerate are but results of evolution, of environment, of education,
and do not alter the purpose for which the man was born. And that
purpose, even though given no chance to work itself out, is so vital a
part of the man that it remains an undying flame going on into
eternity."

Mr. Bartlett did not answer.

"Will you let me make a color test of you, Mr. Bartlett?" the inventor
asked at length.

"Yes, though I am very skeptical."

He seated himself before the machine. Mr. Procter let the helmet down
till it was just above the subject's head. "You see no part of the
instrument touches you," he said. "There's no opportunity to say that
chemical changes in the circulation are the cause of the color
produced. Now please watch the glass plate." Mr. Bartlett did as
directed. For some moments the plate remained clear, then rays of color
played upon it.

"Green, a rare, soft green," said Mr. Procter. He went on slowly but
without hesitation. "The color of poetry. That color belongs in one who
lies on the grass and gazes at the sky--and dreams; dreams to waken
men's souls with the beauty of his music--a poet, a maker of songs, to
uplift, to keep man's eyes from the ground."

The light faded, the little clicking sound ceased, and yet Mr. Bartlett
did not speak. If in his mind there dwelt the memory of an overstuffed
drawer with reams of paper covered with verses, he said nothing. His
face gave no evidence to the inventor of his thoughts.

At last he roused himself, shrugged his shoulders. "My dear man," he
said, "did you ever hear of a poet at heart making a fortune as I have
done?"

"It could be done," returned Mr. Procter sadly, "even by a poet."

Mr. Bartlett rose. "I did not aver," continued Mr. Procter, "that you
could only be a poet. I said that your real meaning was to give to the
world the rare visions which grew in your heart."

Mr. Bartlett gazed with some astonishment at the machine.

"The day when Suzanna was born, as I stood looking down at her, the
thought came winging to me that she had come charged with a purpose
which she alone could fulfill. And so was planted the first seed in my
mind for the making of my machine."

Mr. Bartlett spoke again after a silence given to some ponderi