vivid touch. Until the fading twilight blended all color
into gloom I passed from one canvas to another along the
wall in silence, oblivious of all save the presence of
Rayel, who followed close at my elbow, evidently enjoying my
admiration of his work. When I had finished looking at the
paintings I turned for some sign to indicate his further
pleasure, and discovered that he was gone. My uncle was
standing near me.

"It is late," said he.

We returned at once across the yard to my uncle's retreat
among his books and papers. Lighting the lamps he sat down
beside me.

"The power of speech is returning," said he. "I can talk
more easily."

"Did I not hear you speak to your son?" I asked.

"Yes," he answered. "Long ago difficulties arose. Sometimes
he could not command my thoughts, nor I his. I had known
fifty years of life; he had not--hence an inequality. My
physical organism had been neglected. It was an imperfect
agent of the mind. Many of my faculties were lost. These
circumstances stood between us like barriers. It was the
beginning of each communication that troubled us, when our
minds were working in different channels. Something was
needed for a cue--a starting-point. Ten pregnant words of
Sanscrit were all we needed. It was easy then."