``Perhaps,'' he almost whispered, his
thought father to the wish.

``I am afraid not,'' she sighed. ``I
studied drawing, worked diligently and,
I hope, intelligently, and yet I was
quickly convinced that a counterfeit
presentment of nature was puny and
insignificant. I painted Niagara. My
friends praised my effort. I saw
Niagara again--I destroyed the picture.''

``But you must be prepared to
accept the limitations of man and his
work,'' said the philosophical violinist

``Annihilation of one's own identity
in the moment is possible in nature's
domain--never in man's. The resistless,
never-ending rush of the waters,
madly churning, pitilessly dashing
against the rocks below; the mighty
roar of the loosened giant; that was
Niagara. My picture seemed but a
smear of paint.''

``Still, man has won the admiration
of man by his achievements,'' he said.

``Alas, for me,'' she sighed, ``I have