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 were indestructible, that hate and violence, for all their sardonic power, were futile! Aunt Verona had known. In the village, fools had whispered that she was mad, and she had disdained to explain. But to him she had explained—not in words, but in terms as subtle as those in which he was now exhorting a chance congregation. Aunt Verona had known; she had lived long enough to give him a hint; and now he was beginning to know. And he would go on learning, and some day the winds of knowledge would sweep him to the very shores of heaven. Meanwhile he was on the right course; he was catching glimpses of his soul, illuminating glimpses.

A long pause for the two deep octaves. Then a short recapitulation of the theme and a swift, exultant flourish, by way of proclaiming his final vindication.

His arms dropped, his nerves and muscles relaxed, and a great weariness came over him. He knew he had succeeded, but he no longer cared. He even forgot what he had been doing, and was surprised when the lights went up. He was mechanically bowing before a blur of heads. Thick-skinned hands and tough sea-lungs were acclaiming him. If he had begun by chastening his audience into a breathless entity, he had ended by inciting it to riotous approbation. Infinitely more decorous applause in the town hall of Hale's Turning had intoxicated him, but this noisy demonstration merely assailed his ears. What was hand-applause after that long pregnant silence! Even the pride in Otto's face moved him only to a momentary glow of pleasure. With a pang he realized that he had outgrown Otto and the Clytemnestra, as he had outgrown Hale's Turning.

For the sake of peace he played additional solos, then the concert was at an end, and he knew that Miss Green was waiting to invite him to have coffee and cake in the small inner room. At any other time he would have accepted gladly, but now he was too deeply buried in