CHAPTER XII.
First Fruits of His Shame When the postman, in his little cart, stopped at the home of Aaron King and his friend, that day, it was Conrad Lagrange who received the mail.
The artist was in his studio, and the novelist, knowing that the painter was not at work, went to him there with a letter.
The portrait--still on the easel--was hidden by the velvet curtain.
Sitting by a table that was littered with a confusion of sketches, books and papers, the young man was re-tying a package of old letters that he had, evidently, just been reading.
As the novelist went to him, the artist said quietly,--indicating the package in his hand,--"From my mother.

She wrote them during the last year of my study abroad." When the other did not reply, he continued thoughtfully, "Do you know, Lagrange, since my acquaintance with you, I find many things in these old letters that--at the time I received them--I did not, at all, appreciate.

You seem to be helping me, somehow, to a better understanding of my mother's spirit and mind." He smiled.
Presently, Conrad Lagrange, when he could trust himself to speak, said, "Your mother's mind and spirit, Aaron, were too fine and rare to be fully appreciated or understood except by one trained in the school of life, itself.

When she wrote those letters, you were a student of mere craftsmanship.

She, herself no doubt, recognized that you would not fully comprehend the things she wrote; but she put them down, out of the very fullness of her intellectual and spiritual wealth--trusting to your love to preserve the letters, and to the years to give you understanding." "Why," cried the artist, "those are almost her exact words--as I have just been reading them!" The other, smiling, continued quietly, "Your appreciation and understanding of your mother will continue to grow through all your life, Aaron.