“Well, I believe in genius, I believe in poetry—­though not much in poets—­music—­though that is not for men.  I believe in love—­for those who may have it.  I believe in woman and in God.  When I draw myself close to Him, I am overcome with a great awe, and dare not pray.  It is only when I seem to push Him off, and coop Him up in a little crystal-domed palace beyond the stars, and out of hearing, that I dare tell Him how huge He is, and pipe little serenades of psalmody to Him.”

“Oh, Barton, you are profane!”

“No, mother, men are profane in their gorgeous egotism.  We are the braggarts, and ascribe egotism to God Himself; while we are the sole objects of interest in the universe.  God was and is on our account only; and when men fancy that they have found a way of running things without Him, they shove Him out entirely.  I put it plainly, and it sounds bad.”

“This is a compendious confession of faith,” said Henry; and, pausing, “why do you put genius first?”

“As the most doubtful, and, at the same time, an interesting article.  I am at the age when a young man queries anxiously about it.  Has he any of it—­the least bit?”

“Well, what is your conclusion?”

“Sometimes I fancy I feel faintly its stir and spur and inspiration.”

“When it may be only dyspepsia,” said Henry.

“It may be.  I haven’t ranked myself among geniuses.”

“Yet you believe in it.  What is it?”

“I can’t tell.  Can you tell what is electricity or life?”

“That is not logical.  You answer one question by asking another.”

“I am not sure but that is allowable,” interrupted Ranney.  “You pose your opponent with an unanswerable question, and he in turn proposes several, thereby suggesting that there are things unknown, and that if you will push him to that realm you are equally involved.  It may not be logical, but it usually silences.”

“Not quite, in this instance,” said Henry, “for we know by their manifestations that life and electricity are; they manifest themselves to us.”

“And by the same rule genius manifests itself to your brother, although it may not to you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Ranney,” said Bart.

“Now I do not suppose,” he went on, “that genius is a beneficent little imp, or genie, lodged in the brain of the fortunate or unfortunate, who is all-powerful, and always at hand to give strength, emit a flash of light, or pour inspiration into the faculties, nor does it consist in anything that answers to that idea.  But there are men endowed with quick, strong intellects, with warm, ardent, intense temperaments, and with strong imaginations; where these, or their equivalents, are found happily blended, the result is genius.  There is a working power that can do anything, and with apparent ease.  If it plunges down, it need not remain long; if it mounts up, it alights again without effort or injury.”