had reasons, I am sure, for feeling as she did--that it would be better
for you not to know. It was some one, perhaps, whose influence upon you,
she had cause to fear."

"It was very strange," returned the artist, hesitatingly. "Perhaps I ought
not to say it. But I felt that, as you suggest, she feared for me to know.
She seemed to want to tell me, but did not, for _my_ sake. It was very
strange."

Conrad Lagrange made no reply.

"I wanted you to know about mother,"--continued the artist,--"because I
would like you to understand why--why I must succeed in my work."

The older man smiled to himself, in the dusk. "I have always known why
you must succeed, Aaron," he returned. "I have never questioned your
motives. I question only your understanding of success. I question--if you
will pardon me--your understanding of your mother's wish for you."

Then, in one of those rare momentary moods, when he seemed to reveal to
his young friend his real nature that lay so deeply hidden from the world,
he added, "You are right, Aaron. This place _is_ haunted--haunted by the
spirit of the mountains, yonder--haunted by the spirit of the rose garden,
out there. The silent strength of the hills, and the loveliness of the
garden will attend you in your studio, as you work. I do not wonder that
you feel a presentiment that your artistic future is to be shaped here;
for between these influences and the other influences that will be brought
to bear upon you, you will be forced to decide. May the God of all true
art and artists help you to make no mistake. Listen!"