...Too much artist—­how Beth understood what that meant now!  There is a way to God through the arts, but it is a way of quicksands and miasmas, of deep forests and abysses.  Only giants emerge unhurt in spirit.  The artist is taught to worship line and surface; his early paths are the paths of sensuousness.  He may be held true at first by the rigors of denial—­but what a turning is the first success—­his every capacity of sense is suddenly tested, as only an artist’s can be!  Then, the hatred of the unsuccessful; he must forge ahead in the teeth of a great wind of contemporary hostility, which rouses the Ego and not the Spirit.  And finally the artist must choose between his visions, for alike come purity and evil.  The road of genius runs ever close to the black abyss of madness.  The human mind ignited with genius is like an old time-weakened building, in which is installed new machinery of startling power.  What a racking upon old fabric!

The simple religious nature with its ventures into a milder spiritual country, puts on glory with far less danger and pain than the artist, and what a perfect surface is prepared within him for the arts to be painted upon!

Beth knew she had lived her art-life bravely, loved her work with valor, and served it with the best of her eye and hand.  The life of just-woman, she had wanted more, and idealized as only an artist can—­to be a man’s maiden, a man’s mate and the mother of his babes, but this was not for her.  The man had come, and she had turned him away. Just-woman would have held him fast.  Yes, it was the artist that had faltered at the right moment—­the resolute creative force within her, weathered in suffering, not to be intimidated, slow, tragically slow to bow down....  A little Salvation band passed below: 

     Joy to the world,
     The Lord is Come

Eight notes of the descending scale sounded mightily from drum and cornet....

* * * * *

Bedient was coming this morning.  He had asked to, the night before; asked if he might come early....  What a morning for bleak December!  She went to the window.  Islands of rose and lily were softly blooming in the lakes of Eastern light.  Heaven was building in the East—­its spires to rise unto high noon....

His step was on the stair.  Beth hurried to the door.  She saw his strange smile, and the bundle in his arms.

“I thought you would like to play with him for a while,” he said.  “He’s a wonderfully blessed little boy....  You really had to see him——­”

Beth had taken the babe to a far corner—­and rushed to shut the window.  Now, she bent over the coverings.

“I have always wanted to see you, just like that,” Bedient added. “...I know the little boy’s story....  He is amazingly rich—­they both gave him the blue flower.  He is love-essence....  May I leave him a little while, until I get some other things?”