“No,”—­said the older man, so softly that the other, torn by the passion of his own thoughts, did not hear,—­“No, Aaron, your mother will not be disappointed.”

For a time longer they sat in silence.  Then the young man said, “I wish I knew the name of my mother’s friend—­the one who suffered the heaviest loss through my father, and who so generously protected her in the crisis.  I would like to thank him, at least.  I begged her to tell me, but she would not.  She said he would not want me to know—­that for me to attempt to reimburse him would, to his mind, rob him of his real reward.”

Conrad Lagrange, his head bowed, spoke quietly to the dog at his feet.  Rising, Czar laid his soft muzzle on his master’s knee and looked up into the homely, world-worn face.  Gently, the strange man—­so lonely and embittered in the fame that he had won—­at a price—­stroked the brown head.  “Your mother knew best, Aaron,” he said slowly, without looking at his companion.  “You must believe that she knew best.  Her beautiful spirit could not lead her astray.  She was right in this, also.  Your sentiment does you honor, but you must respect her wish.  Whoever the man was—­she had reasons, I am sure, for feeling as she did—­that it would be better for you not to know.  It was some one, perhaps, whose influence upon you, she had cause to fear.”

“It was very strange,” returned the artist, hesitatingly.  “Perhaps I ought not to say it.  But I felt that, as you suggest, she feared for me to know.  She seemed to want to tell me, but did not, for my sake.  It was very strange.”

Conrad Lagrange made no reply.

“I wanted you to know about mother,”—­continued the artist,—­“because I would like you to understand why—­why I must succeed in my work.”

The older man smiled to himself, in the dusk.  “I have always known why you must succeed, Aaron,” he returned.  “I have never questioned your motives.  I question only your understanding of success.  I question—­if you will pardon me—­your understanding of your mother’s wish for you.”

Then, in one of those rare momentary moods, when he seemed to reveal to his young friend his real nature that lay so deeply hidden from the world, he added, “You are right, Aaron.  This place is haunted—­haunted by the spirit of the mountains, yonder—­haunted by the spirit of the rose garden, out there.  The silent strength of the hills, and the loveliness of the garden will attend you in your studio, as you work.  I do not wonder that you feel a presentiment that your artistic future is to be shaped here; for between these influences and the other influences that will be brought to bear upon you, you will be forced to decide.  May the God of all true art and artists help you to make no mistake.  Listen!”

As though in answer to the solemn words of the man who spoke from the fullness of a life-long experience and from the depths of a life-old love, a strain of music came from out the fragrant darkness.  Somewhere, hidden in the depths of the orange grove, the soul of a true musician was seeking expression in the tones of a violin.