"Life has beginning," he objected.

I was silenced for the moment, while his eyes wandered on to an
adjoining decoration, a photographic reproduction of somebody's
"Leda and the Swan."

"That picture," he said, "has no beginning. It has no end. I do
not understand pictures."

"Look at that picture," I commanded, pointing to a third
decoration. "It means something. Tell me what it means to you."

He studied it for several minutes.

"The little girl is sick," he said finally. "That is the doctor
looking at her. They have been up all night - see, the oil is low
in the lamp, the first morning light is coming in at the window.
It is a great sickness; maybe she will die, that is why the doctor
looks so hard. That is the mother. It is a great sickness,
because the mother's head is on the table and she is crying."

"How do you know she is crying?" I interrupted. "You cannot see
her face. Perhaps she is asleep."

Sitka Charley looked at me in swift surprise, then back at the
picture. It was evident that he had not reasoned the impression.

"Perhaps she is asleep," he repeated. He studied it closely. "No,
she is not asleep. The shoulders show that she is not asleep. I