of Drene's going forth and coming in. He had been exact, precise,
fastidious; he had been sensitive to environment, a lover of
beautiful things, a man who deeply appreciated any symbol that
suggested home and hearth and family.

But when these three were shattered in the twinkling of an eye,
something else broke, too. And he gradually emerged from chaos,
indifferent to all that had formerly been a part of him, a silent
emotionless, burnt out thing, callous to all that he had once cared
for.

Yet something of what he had been must have remained latent within
him for with unimpaired precision and logic he constructed his clay
and chiseled his marble; and there must have been in him something
to express, for the beauty of his work, spiritual and material, had
set him high among the highest in his profession.

Sometimes sorrow changes the dross from the lamp of the spirit so
that it burns with a purity almost unearthly; sometimes sorrow
sears, rendering the very soul insensible; and sometimes sorrow
remains under the ashes, a living coal steadily consuming all that
is noble, hardening all that is ignoble; and is extinguished leaving
a devil behind it--fully equipped to slay the crippled soul.

Alone in his studio at night, motionless in his chair, Drene was
becoming aware of this devil. Reading by lamplight he grew conscious
of it; recognized it as a companion of many years, now understanding
that although pain had ended, hatred had remained, hiding, biding,
and very, very quiet.