The story of Mr. Britton's life impressed Darrell deeply. In the days

following his friend's departure he would sit for hours revolving it in

his mind, unable to rid himself of the impression that it was in some

way connected with his own life. Impelled by some motive he could

scarcely explain, he recorded it in his journal as told by Mr. Britton

as nearly as he could recall it.

Left to himself he worked with unabated ardor, but his work soon grew

unsatisfying. The inspiring nature of his surroundings seemed to

stimulate him to higher effort and loftier work, which should call into

play the imaginative faculties and in which the brain would be free to

weave its own creations. Stronger within him grew the desire to write a

novel which should have in it something of the power, the force, of the

strenuous western life,--something which would seem, in a measure at

least, worthy of his surroundings. His day's work ended, he would walk

up and down the rocks, sometimes far into the night, the plot for this

story forming within his brain, till at last its outlines grew distinct

and he knew the thing that was to be, as the sculptor knows what will

come forth at his bidding from the lifeless marble. He made a careful

synopsis of the plot that nothing might escape him in the uncertain

future, and then began to write.

The order of his work was now reversed, the new undertaking being given

his first and best thought; then, when imagination wearied and refused

to rise above the realms of fact, he fell back upon his scientific work

as a rest from the other. Thus employed the weeks passed with incredible

swiftness, the monotony broken by an occasional visit from Mr. Britton,

until August came, its hot breath turning the grasses sere and brown.

One evening Darrell came forth from his work at a later hour than usual.

His mind had been unusually active, his imagination vivid, but, wearied

at last, he was compelled to stop short of the task he had set for

himself.

The heat had been intense that day, and the atmosphere seemed peculiarly

oppressive. The sun was sinking amid light clouds of gorgeous tints, and

as Darrell watched their changing outlines they seemed fit emblems of

the thoughts at that moment baffling his weary brain,--elusive,

intangible, presenting themselves in numberless forms, yet always beyond

his grasp.

Standing erect, with arms folded, his pose indicated conscious strength,

and the face lifted to the evening sky was one which would have

commanded attention amid a sea of human faces. Two years had wrought

wondrous changes in it. Strength and firmness were there still, but

sweetness was mingled with the strength, and the old, indomitable will

was tempered with gentleness. All the finer susceptibilities had been

awakened and had left their impress there. Introspection had done its

work. It was the face of a man who knew himself and had conquered

himself. The sculptor's work was almost complete.




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