Looking back over the thirty years, he could see where he had made
mistakes in moulding the human clay entrusted to his care, yet, in the
end, the mistakes had not mattered. Back in the beginning, he had
formulated certain cherished ideals for his son, and had worked steadily
toward them, unmindful of occasional difficulties and even failures.

Against his own judgment, he had yielded to Francesca in the choice of
the boy's career. "Look at his hands," she had said. "You couldn't put
hands like his at work in an office. If he isn't meant for music, we'll
find it out soon enough."

But Allison had gone on, happily, along the chosen path, with never a
question or doubt of his ultimate success. Just now, the Colonel was
deeply grateful to Francesca, for the years abroad had been pleasant
ones, and would have been wholly impossible had Allison been working in
an office.

With a sigh, he began to pace back and forth through the hall, his hands
in his pockets, and his grey head bowed. Before him was his own
portrait, in uniform, his hand upon his sword. The sword itself, hanging
in a corner of the hall, was dull and lifeless now. He had a curious
sense that his work was done.

The tiny stream, rising from some cool pool among the mountains, is not
unlike man's own beginning, for, at first, it gives no hint of its
boundless possibilities. Grown to a river, taking to itself the water
from a thousand secret channels, it leaps down the mountain, heedless of
rocky barriers, with all the joy of lusty youth.

The river itself portrays humanity precisely, with its tortuous