The Miller press. [volume] (Miller, S.D.) 190?-current, 1910-06-16
CHAPTER XVIII.

The day had been unusually warm
in the Office, but otherwise 40 differ
ent from other days.
When Derring came home at night
he threw himself on the bed to rest
before dressing for dinner. 1t had
become a common thing for him to
stop to rest now and then during the
day-how common, wen he himself
did not realize. He was less intro
spective than formerly. He worked
instead of specializing or dreaming.
When he found himself too tired to
work he rested for a little, as he
was doing now.
1t had taken him long to learn the
art Of resting. But he had at last
gained the power to turn aside at any
moment from the rush of life and
yield himself, body and mind, to q
quiet restfulness.
AS he lay in the half-darkened room,
his eyes closed, his breath coming
and going lightly between parted lips,
IL was easy to see that the past ten
years had not all been as peaceful as
this. The thick hair, pushed careless
ly back, was streaked with gray. The
exuberant vitality of the face and
frame had given place to a worn look
of passive strength. Ten years should
not so change a face were Ii not that
ten years, as men count time, are
sometimes a cycle.
nnrrinU NyaO MT fhfnEinU ~ Tho
past, however, nor of himself. He
was resting, gaining strength for the
next work that lay before him.
At last he rose and began to move
about the room, making ready for din
ner. Suddenly he stopped, bewildered,
had happened? A change too subtle
to be put in words had come over him
while he rested. He looked at his
face in the mirror, half expecting to
sec some sign. 1t was not there. But
deep in his heart he felt it throbbing
living! Nay, more, it was a wonder
full, beautiful thing. The feeling did
not take words. 1t was too ~pervasive,
too complete, for that. No mere
thought could have carried such
weight of conviction. 1t was too sim
pie for a chain of reasoning. Yet it
carried belief. He had reasoned care
fully and logically to the opposite
conclusion. How was it?-Life could
not be worth living. Since there is
no permanent happiness, existence
has no reason for being rather than
for not being, and no certainty of IN
outcome that shall justify suffering.
He smiled at his careful logic, swept
away by the force of pure conviction
Life was worth living!
1t lay before him simple as day
light, and as clear. His mind ran
ahead. He must find the work he
could do well, and do it. Herein lay
happiness. Then let him help others
to find their place. He would have
joy of heart and the purpose that
makes life reasonable. 1t mattered
little about the Immortality of the
soul. Three-score years and ten was
immortality. The structure Of the
universe betrayed a master plan. To
live in unison with this plan, to aid
in its execution-if only for a few
years-was enough.
He turned to the window and, draw
ing up the shade, looked Gro the
broken lines CT chimney-pots and roofs
to the western sky. His heart leaped
to meet It. Beauty had come back to
the earth. He stood drinking 1t in
with the eagerness of a traveller who
e e home at last. He had not known
how his artist nature had hungered
for 1t through the years. The tears
came into his eyes as he looked. A
tangle OF chimneys and gables against
a twilight sky, but full of subtle beau
ty. Would 1t stay with him?-Where
had it been? There in the outer
world-but hidden from him because
he was unworthy? Or in his own SOU
languishing with its sickness? Their
In a moment it came to hint was
not in the world, nor in his soul. II
was the soul itself coming to con
seriousness, recognizing itself, behold
ing its own features, as In a glass
| existence reaching its highest form II
the consciousness of the soul. HI
| stood awed before 1t. 1t seemed u