"No, she did not understand," he continued, accepting Auntie Sue's
interpretation without comment. "And when my writing brought no money,
because no publisher would accept my stuff, and the conditions under
which I wrote became intolerable because of misunderstanding and
opposition and disbelief in my ability and charges of neglect,
I--I--stole money from my employers to gain temporary relief until my
writing should amount to something. You see, I could not help believing
that I would succeed, in time. I suppose all dreamers have more or less
confidence in their dreams: they must, you know, or their dreams would
never be realized. I always expected to pay back the money I took with
the money I would earn by my pen. But I failed to earn anything, you
see; and then--then the inevitable happened, and the river brought me to
you."

"But, my dear boy!" cried Auntie Sue, "all this that you have told me
is no reason why you should fear to write now. Indeed, it is a very good
reason why you should not fear."

He looked at her questioningly, and she continued: "You have given every
reason in the world why you failed. Your whole life was out of tune.
How could you expect to produce anything worthy from such a jangling
discord? You should have been afraid, indeed, to write THEN. But,
NOW,--now, Brian, you are ready. You are a long, long way down the river
from the place of your failures. The disturbing, distracting things
are past,--just as in the quiet reach of the river below Elbow Rock the
turmoil of the rapids is past. You say that you know exactly what
you want to write, and why you want to write it--and you do know--and
because you know,--because you have suffered,--because you have
learned,--because you can do this thing for others,--it is yours to do,
and so you must do it. What you really mean when you say you are 'afraid