There was a frost, and the stars were shining.
But Uncle Robert, who loved nature in all her moods, did not note the sparkle upon the laurel bushes or the quiet splendor of the starlit sky.
He walked along the gravel path slowly and painfully, his eyes cast down. A copy of his book was in his breast pocket. He felt it there, as if a dead hand was laid upon his heart.
Was all that he had heard true? Philip was clever. He was a critic. Was this the kind of thing that would be said by reviewers of his little book? Would they all sneer and ridicule him?
“There is no fool like the old fool!” he told himself with a melancholy shake of the head. “I have learned a lesson.”
The dry dead leaves on the big oak trees which bordered the croquet lawn seemed to Uncle Robert to whisper, “To-night will come a wind—a small wind, and we, nipped by frost, shall fall and be swept up by the gardener; we shall lie dead and forgotten on the rubbish heap. But we shall be the new green leaves, and we shall laugh in the spring sunshine and folks will say, ‘Look at the new leaves!’ They will not know that they are we come back!”
Uncle Robert laughed a little sadly as his imagination was stirred thus by the rustle of the dry leaves.
It had always been thus with him. Fancies came with every sound and sight of nature, and rhymes had followed—rhymes which he had just heard called “drivel.”
And even now, in the realization that he had failed to give the songs expression which he heard in his heart, something sang still. He could still hear the voices of nature. That was left to him.
Oddly enough, he felt no animus against Philip for his brutal criticism. Philip had the critical gift, which had made his own work so perfect in its way.