immeasurable relief, the almost passionate joy, of one who for the first
time is able to gratify a new and marvelous appetite. With his eyes,
his soul, all these late-born, strange, appreciative powers, he
ministered to an appetite which seemed unquenchable. It was dusk when
he came out, his cheeks burning, his eyes bright. He carried a new
music, a whole world of new joys with him, but his most vital sensation
was one of glowing and passionate sympathy. They were splendid, these
heroes who had seen the truth and had struggled to give life to it with
pencil or brush or chisel, that others, too, might see and understand.
If only one could do one's little share!

He walked slowly along, absorbed in his thoughts, unconscious even of
the direction in which his footsteps were taking him. When at last he
paused, he was outside a theatre. The name of Ibsen occupied a
prominent place upon the boards. From somewhere among the hidden cells
of his memory came a glimmering recollection--a word or two read at
random, an impression, only half understood, yet the germ of which had
survived. Ibsen! A prophet of truth, surely! He looked eagerly down
the placard for the announcements and the prices of admission. And then
a sudden cold douche of memory descended upon his new enthusiasms.
There was Ellen!



CHAPTER III

MR. ALFRED BURTON'S FAMILY

There certainly was Ellen! Like a man on his way to prison, Alfred
Burton took his place in a third-class carriage in his customary train