With trembling hands, the gentle old teacher reached for her handkerchief, which lay in the sewing-basket on the table beside her. Smilingly, she wiped away the tears that filled her eyes. Lovingly, she looked up at him,—standing so tall and strong before her, with his reddish hair tumbled and tossed, and his Irish blue eyes lighted with the fire of his inspiration.
“Well,” she said, at last, “why don't you do it, Brian?”
As a breath of air puts out the light of a candle, so the light went from Brian Kent's face. Dropping into his chair, he answered hopelessly, “Because I am afraid.”
“Afraid?” echoed Auntie Sue, troubled and amazed. “What in the world are you afraid of, Brian?”
And the bitter, bitter answer came, “I am afraid of another failure.”
Auntie Sue's quick mind caught the significance of his words. “ANOTHER failure, Brian? Then you,—then you have written before?”
“Yes,” he returned. And not since his decision to remain with her had she seen him so despondent. “To write was the dream and the passion of my life. I tried and tried. God, how I worked and slaved at it! The only result from my efforts was the hell from which you dragged me.”
Alter a little silence, Auntie Sue said gently: “I don't think I understand, Brian. You have never told me about your trouble, you know.”
“It is an old, old story,” he returned. “I am only one of thousands. My wretched experience is not at all uncommon.”
“I know,” she answered. “But don't you think that perhaps you had better tell me? Perhaps, in the mere telling of it to me, now that it is all over, you may find the real reason for—for what happened to you.”