high position," he concluded, with a slight sneer.

"Goodbye, then. I wish you well."

"And so do I wish you," rejoined the philosopher, with an attempt at mocking irony, as he arose. "Goodbye, my friend."

He began briskly down the path, stopped, and called back, "I hear that there is an island rising, in the Pacific: maybe you can find some wise mermaids out there!"

He laughed maliciously, and strode quickly out of sight.

And so the abused budding mystic was left alone, as he desired it.

"Goethe was right," he thought to himself; "men are all too predominantly wont to scorn what they do not understand. Goethe himself illustrated the tendency very well.

"There are so many things that cannot be understood by the ordinary intellectual-emotional-sensible mind, no matter how clever it may be, or how brilliant and vigorous, and broad and deep and strong. It lacks too much: it is not self-existent, and self-sustaining. And the things that it cannot understand are the only things of real, undying importance.

"May I soon find my teacher," he continued, "and be properly trained."

He stood up, restlessly. His last day among the artists was tumbling piecemeal upon him. Was it Shakespeare that the theatrical group had been performing? Yes, King Lear! Such magnificent art, and so futile. He paced about sadly, trying to remember a certain line—yes, this was it: