A little passionate Protestant had sallied out to make bed with the gods; and the souls of such the just gods do truly take into certain shining realms whither poor involatile bodies of flesh may not follow.  The requirement is that one feel his own potential godship enough to rebel.  For, having rebelled, he will assuredly venture beyond mortal domains into that garden where stands the tree of Truth—­this garden being that one to the west just beyond the second fence (or whichever fence); that point where the mortal of invertebrate soul is beset with the feeling that he has already dared too far—­that he had better make for home mighty quick if he doesn’t want Something to get him.  The essence of this decision is quite the same whether the mortal be eight years old or eighty.  Now the Tree of Truth stands just over this line at which all but the gods’ own turn to scamper back before supper.  It is the first tree to the left—­an apple-tree, twisted, blackened, scathed, eaten with age, yet full of blossoms as fresh and fertile as those first born of any young tree whatsoever.  Those able rightly to read this tree of Truth become at once as the gods, keeping the faith of children while absorbing the wisdom of the ages—­lacking either of which, be it known, one may not become an imperishable ornament of Time.

But to him who is bravely faithful to the passing of that last fence, who reclines under that tree even for so long as one aspiration, comes a substantial gain:  ever after, when he goes into any solitude, he becomes more than himself.  Then he reads the first lesson of the tree of Truth, which is that the spirit of Life ages yet is ageless; and suffers yet is joyous.  This is no inconsiderable reward for passing that frontier, even if one must live longer to comprehend reasons.  It is worth while even if the mortal become a mere dilettante in paradoxes and never learn even feebly to spell the third lesson, which is the ultimate wisdom of the gods.

These matters being precisely so, the little boy knew quite as well as the gods could know it, that a credit had been set down to his soul for what he had ventured—­even though what he had not done was, so far, more stupendous than what he had, in the world of things and mere people.  He now became enamoured of life rather than death; and he studied the Shorter Catechism with such effect that he could say it clear over to “Every sin deserveth God’s wrath and curse both in this life and that which is to come.” Each night he tried earnestly to learn two new answers; and glad was he when his grandfather would sit by him, for the old man had now become his image of God, and it seemed fitting to recite to him.  Often as they sat together the little boy would absently slip his hand into the big, warm, bony hand of the old man, turning and twisting it there until he felt an answering pressure.  This embarrassed the old man.  Though he would really have liked to take the little boy up to his breast and hold him there, he knew not how; and he would even be careful not to restrain the little hand in his own—­to hold it, yet to leave it free to withdraw at its first uneasy wriggle.