brought me home. I was fortunate enough to get one on the line, and they
say--over there--that I had a good chance. I don't know how it will go
here at home." There was a note of anxiety in his voice.

"What do you do?"

"Portraits."

[Illustration: A curious expression of baffling quizzing half pathetic and
wholly cynical interrogation]

With his face again toward the mountains, the novelist said thoughtfully,
"This West country will produce some mighty artists, Mr. King. By far the
greater part of this land must remain, always, in its primitive
naturalness. It will always be easier, here, than in the city crowded
East, for a man to be himself. There is less of that spirit which is born
of clubs and cliques and clans and schools--with their fine-spun
theorizing, and their impudent assumption that they are divinely
commissioned to sit in judgment. There is less of artistic tea-drinking,
esthetic posing, and soulful talk; and more opportunity for that
loneliness out of which great art comes. The atmosphere of these mountains
and deserts and seas inspires to a self-assertion, rather than to a
clinging fast to the traditions and culture of others--and what, after
all, _is_ a great artist, but one who greatly asserts himself?"

The younger man answered in a like vein; "Mr. Lagrange, your words recall
to my mind a thought in one of mother's favorite books. She quoted from
the volume so often that, as a youngster, I almost knew it by heart, and,
in turn, it became my favorite. Indeed, I think that, with mother's aid as
an interpreter, it has had more influence upon my life than any other one