When she wrote those letters, you were a student of mere
craftsmanship. She, herself no doubt, recognized that you would not fully
comprehend the things she wrote; but she put them down, out of the very
fullness of her intellectual and spiritual wealth--trusting to your love
to preserve the letters, and to the years to give you understanding."
"Why," cried the artist, "those are almost her exact words--as I have just
been reading them!"
The other, smiling, continued quietly, "Your appreciation and
understanding of your mother will continue to grow through all your life,
Aaron. When you are old--as old as I am--you will still find in those
letters hidden treasures of thought, and truths of greater value than you,
now, can realize. But here--I have brought you your share of the
afternoon's mail."
When Aaron King opened the envelope that his friend laid on the table
before him, he sat regarding its contents with an air of thoughtful
meditation--lost to his surroundings.
The novelist--who had gone to the window and was looking into the rose
garden--turned to speak to his friend; but the other did not reply. Again,
the man at the window addressed the painter; but still the younger man was
silent.
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