cloyed, behold them droop and wither around thee, and wilt thou
leave them utterly destroyed and desolate? Hast thou no vestige of
a heart, my friend? a poet-heart, to feel the misery of the world?
..the patient grief of all-appealing Nature, commingled with the
dreadful, yet majestic silence of an unknown God? ... Oh, surely,
thou hast this supremest gift of genius, . . this loving, enduring,
faithful, sympathetic HEART! ... for without it, how shall thy
fame be held long in remembrance? ... how shall thy muse-grown
laurels escape decay? Tell me! ..." and leaning forward he caught
his friend's hand in his eagerness.. "Thou art not made of
stone, . . thou art human, . . thou art not exempt from mortal
suffering ..."

"Not exempt--no!" interposed Sah-luma thoughtfully ... "But, as
yet,--I have never really suffered!"

"Never really suffered!".. Theos dropped the hand he held, and an
invisible barrier seemed to rise slowly up between him and his
beautiful companion. Never really suffered! ... then he was no
true poet after all, if he was ignorant of sorrow! If he could not
spiritually enter into the pathos of speechless griefs and unshed
tears,--if he could not absorb into his own being the prayers and
plaints of all Creation, and utter them aloud in burning and
immortal language, his calling was in vain, his election futile!
This thought smote Theos with the strength of a sudden blow,--he
sat silent, and weighed with a dreary feeling of disappointment to
which he was unable to give any fitting expression.

"I have never really suffered ..." repeated Sah-luma slowly: . .
"But--I have IMAGINED suffering! That is enough for me! The