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.