apple-tree, twisted, blackened, scathed, eaten with age, yet full of
blossoms as fresh and fertile as those first born of any young tree
whatsoever. Those able rightly to read this tree of Truth become at once
as the gods, keeping the faith of children while absorbing the wisdom of
the ages--lacking either of which, be it known, one may not become an
imperishable ornament of Time.

But to him who is bravely faithful to the passing of that last fence, who
reclines under that tree even for so long as one aspiration, comes a
substantial gain: ever after, when he goes into any solitude, he becomes
more than himself. Then he reads the first lesson of the tree of Truth,
which is that the spirit of Life ages yet is ageless; and suffers yet is
joyous. This is no inconsiderable reward for passing that frontier, even
if one must live longer to comprehend reasons. It is worth while even if
the mortal become a mere dilettante in paradoxes and never learn even
feebly to spell the third lesson, which is the ultimate wisdom of the
gods.

These matters being precisely so, the little boy knew quite as well as the
gods could know it, that a credit had been set down to his soul for what
he had ventured--even though what he had not done was, so far, more
stupendous than what he had, in the world of things and mere people. He
now became enamoured of life rather than death; and he studied the Shorter
Catechism with such effect that he could say it clear over to "_Every sin
deserveth God's wrath and curse both in this life and that which is to
come._" Each night he tried earnestly to learn two new answers; and glad
was he when his grandfather would sit by him, for the old man had now
become his image of God, and it seemed fitting to recite to him. Often as
they sat together the little boy would absently slip his hand into the
big, warm, bony hand of the old man, turning and twisting it there until