mystery. The soul of things can be apprehended only by the soul. The interpretation is the measure of your nature."
"I feel very small," said Anne. "Please excuse me for living."
Anne did not try to work. She sat lazily in her grandfather's arm-chair, thinking. Once she looked up with her sauciest smile.
"Don't you think," she asked, "that you have too many fine ideas about art to be a real artist?"
"May I return the compliment with interest?"
Anne dropped into a reminiscent mood.
"You always did things like that," she said. "Do you remember that when we made mud pies you always did cherubs and angels?"
"And you made dogs and cats," rejoined Howard. "Doesn't it all seem a thousand years ago?"
"I remember your Judgment Day scene. There was a great shapeless figure in the
