Laying aside his tools, he went to his desk, and took from the drawer, that package of his mother’s letters.  He pushed a deep arm-chair in front of his picture, and again seated himself.  As he read letter after letter, he lifted his eyes, at almost every sentence from the written pages to his work.  It was as though he were submitting his picture to a final test—­as, indeed, he was.  He had reached the last letter when Conrad Lagrange entered the studio; Czar at his heels.

Every day, while the picture was growing under the artist’s hand, his friend had watched it take on beauty and power.  He did not need to speak of the finished painting, now.

“Well, lad,” he said, “the old letters again?”

The artist, caressing the dog’s silky head as it was thrust against his knee, answered, “Yes, I finished the picture two hours ago.  I have been having a private exhibition all on my own hook.  Listen.”  From the letter in his hand he read: 

“It is right for you to be ambitious, my son.  I would not have you otherwise.  Without a strong desire to reach some height that in the distance lifts above the level of the present, a man becomes a laggard on the highway of life—­a mere loafer by the wayside—­slothful, indolent—­slipping easily, as the years go, into the most despicable of places—­the place of a human parasite that, contributing nothing to the wealth of the race, feeds upon the strength of the multitude of toilers who pass him by.  But ambition, my boy, is like to all the other gifts that lead men Godward.  It must be a noble ambition, nobly controlled.  A mere striving for place and power, without a saving sense of the responsibility conferred by that place and power, is ignoble.  Such an ambition, I know—­as you will some day come to understand—­is not a blessing but a curse.  It is the curse from which our age is suffering sorely; and which, if it be not lifted, will continue to vitiate the strength and poison the life of the race.

“Because I would have your ambition, a safe and worthy ambition, Aaron, I ask that the supreme and final test of any work that comes from your hand may be this; that it satisfy you, yourself—­that you may be not ashamed to sit down alone with your work, and thus to look it squarely in the face.  Not critics, nor authorities, not popular opinion, not even law or religion, must be the court of final appeal when you are, by what you do, brought to bar; but by you, yourself, the judgment must be rendered.  And this, too, is true, my son, by that judgment and that judgment alone, you will truly live or you will truly die.”

“And that”—­said the novelist—­so famous in the eyes of the world, so infamous in his own sight—­“and that is what she tried to make me believe, when she and I were young together.  But I would not.  I would not accept it.  I thought if I could win fame that she—­” he checked himself suddenly.

“But you have led me to accept it, old man,” cried the artist heartily.  “You have opened my eyes.  You have helped me to understand my mother, as I never could have understood her, alone.”