"You need not be." The artist laughed. "For what is fame? The clatter of tongues, the buzzing of flies. Bah! give me money to buy a brush and colours, and, sitting with solitude, I paint—I am happy."
The quaint old man passed on with a nod of farewell.
IV
Henry was seated by the table in his little hut in California. Before him lay a pile of letters, some of them faded, others stained with—perhaps tears, some with the outline of an enclosed flower or leaf. He moved his hand and let it idly turn them, he read a bit of one here and there.
"It is good to feel you love my letters," he read—"that they are a strength to you. I think of you always and pray for your success. Oh! may it be soon, so that I see you again. How long the years are!"
And again:—
"Henry, things are happening with all the world except us. Your brothers are all married, and Willie has made a name for himself in the
