that he embarked upon the adventure with the joy and enthusiasm of a child—­combined with the clear sight and mental grasp of an extraordinary intellect.  He really never crystallized mentally.  He had no false sense of values.  Conventional or habitual values meant nothing to him.  The only values he recognized were mathematical and scientific facts.  My father was a great man.  He had the mind and the soul that only great men have.  In ways he was even greater than Ernest, than whom I have known none greater.

Even I found some relief in our change of living.  If nothing else, I was escaping from the organized ostracism that had been our increasing portion in the university town ever since the enmity of the nascent Oligarchy had been incurred.  And the change was to me likewise adventure, and the greatest of all, for it was love-adventure.  The change in our fortunes had hastened my marriage, and it was as a wife that I came to live in the four rooms on Pell Street, in the San Francisco slum.

And this out of all remains:  I made Ernest happy.  I came into his stormy life, not as a new perturbing force, but as one that made toward peace and repose.  I gave him rest.  It was the guerdon of my love for him.  It was the one infallible token that I had not failed.  To bring forgetfulness, or the light of gladness, into those poor tired eyes of his—­what greater joy could have blessed me than that?

Those dear tired eyes.  He toiled as few men ever toiled, and all his lifetime he toiled for others.  That was the measure of his manhood.  He was a humanist and a lover.  And he, with his incarnate spirit of battle, his gladiator body and his eagle spirit—­he was as gentle and tender to me as a poet.  He was a poet.  A singer in deeds.  And all his life he sang the song of man.  And he did it out of sheer love of man, and for man he gave his life and was crucified.

And all this he did with no hope of future reward.  In his conception of things there was no future life.  He, who fairly burnt with immortality, denied himself immortality—­such was the paradox of him.  He, so warm in spirit, was dominated by that cold and forbidding philosophy, materialistic monism.  I used to refute him by telling him that I measured his immortality by the wings of his soul, and that I should have to live endless aeons in order to achieve the full measurement.  Whereat he would laugh, and his arms would leap out to me, and he would call me his sweet metaphysician; and the tiredness would pass out of his eyes, and into them would flood the happy love-light that was in itself a new and sufficient advertisement of his immortality.

Also, he used to call me his dualist, and he would explain how Kant, by means of pure reason, had abolished reason, in order to worship God.  And he drew the parallel and included me guilty of a similar act.  And when I pleaded guilty, but defended the act as highly rational, he but pressed me closer and laughed as only one of God’s own lovers could laugh.  I was wont to deny that heredity and environment could explain his own originality and genius, any more than could the cold groping finger of science catch and analyze and classify that elusive essence that lurked in the constitution of life itself.