Mr. Howard stopped again, and Helen found herself leaning forward and wondering.

“I know more about those tears than most people,” the man went on slowly, after a long pause, “for I have had to build my own life in that way; I know best of all the failure, for that has been my lot.  When you and I knew each other, I was very strong in my own heart, and I could always find what joy and power I needed for the living of my life; but there have come to me since, in the years that I have dwelt all alone with my great trial, times when I think that I have stood face to face with this thing that we speak of, this naked tragedy and terror of existence.  There have been times when all the yearning and all the prayer that I had could not save me, when I have known that I had not an ounce of resource left, and have sat and watched the impulse of my soul die within me, and all my strength go from me, and seen myself with fearful plainness as a spark of yearning, a living thing in all its pitifulness and hunger, helpless and walled up in darkness.  To feel that is to be very near indeed to the losing creatures and their sorrow, and the memory of one such time is enough to keep a man merciful forever.  For it is really the deepest fact about life that a man can know;—­how it is so hazardous and so precious, how it keeps its head above the great ocean of the infinite only by all the force it can exert; it happens sometimes that a man does not discover that truth until it is too late, and then he finds life very cruel and savage indeed, I can tell you.”

Mr. Howard stopped, and Helen drew a deep breath; she had been trembling slightly as she stood listening; then as he spoke again, her heart gave a violent throb.  “Some day,” he said, “this girl that we were talking about will have to come to that part of her life’s journey; it is a very sad thing to know.”

“She will understand her sonata better,” said the officer.

“No,” was the reply; “I wish I could think even that; I know how sorrow affects a person whose heart is true, how it draws him close to the great heart of life, and teaches him its sacredness, and sends him forth merciful and humble.  But selfish misery and selfish fear are no less ugly than selfish happiness; a person who suffers ignobly becomes only disgusted and disagreeable, and more selfish than ever. * * * But let us not talk any more about Miss Davis, for it is not a pleasant subject; to a man who seeks as I do to keep his heart full of worship the very air of this place is stifling, with its idleness and pride.  It gives the lie to all my faith about life, and I have only to go back into my solitude and forget it as soon as I can.”

“That ought not to be a difficult thing to do,” said the officer.

“It is for me,” the other answered; “it haunts my thoughts all the time.”  He paused for a while, and then he added, “I happened to think of something I came across this morning, in a collection of French verse I was reading; William, did you ever read anything of Auguste Brizeux?”