Violet had grown up into a woman, and the boys had become men; and now she was kneeling in front of Mrs. Schroder’s fire.

“Ernest’s last day at home,” she said, dreamily.  “Oh, now I begin to pity Harry!”

“To pity Harry?” said Mrs. Schroder.  “Yes, indeed!  But it is Ernest that I think of most.  He is going away among strangers.  He depends upon Harry far more than Harry depends upon him.”

“It is just that,” said Violet.  “Harry has always been the one to give.  But it will be changed now, when Ernest comes home.  You see, he will be great then.  He has been dependent upon us, all along, because genius must move so slowly at first; but when he comes back, he will be above us, and, oh! how shall we know where to find him?”

“You do not mean that my boy will look down upon his mother?” said Mrs. Schroder, raising herself in her chair.

“Look down upon us?” cried Violet.  “Oh, no! it is only the little that do that, that they may appear to be high.  The truly great never look down.  They are kneeling already, and they look up.  If they only would look down upon us!  But it is the old story:  the body can do for a while without the spirit, can make its way in the world for a little, and meantime the spirit is dependent upon the body.  Of course it could not live without the body,—­what we call life.  But by-and-by spirit must assert itself, and find its wings.  And where, oh, where, will it rise to?  Above us,—­above us all!”

“How strangely you talk!” said Mrs. Schroder, looking into Violet’s face.  “What has this to do with poor Ernest?”

“I was thinking of poor Harry,” said Violet.  “All this time he has been working for Ernest.  Harry has earned the money with which Ernest goes abroad,—­which he has lived upon all these years,—­not only his daily bread, but what his talent, his genius, whatever it is, has fed itself with.  Ernest is too unpractical to have been able even to feed himself!”

“And he knows it, my poor Ernest!” said Mrs. Schroder.  “This is why he should be pitied.  It is hard for a generous nature to owe all to another.  It has weighed Ernest down; it has embittered the love of the two brothers.”

“But it is more bitter for Harry,” persisted Violet.  “All this time Ernest could think of the grand return he could bring when his time should come.  But Harry!  He brings the clay out of which Ernest moulds the statue; but the spirit that Ernest breathes into the form,—­will Harry understand it or appreciate it?  The body is very reverent of the soul.  But I think the spirit is not grateful enough to the body.  There comes a time when it says to it, ‘I can do without thee!’ and spurns the kind comrade which has helped it on so far.  Yet it could not have done without the joy of color and form, of sight and hearing, that the body has helped it to.”

“You do not mean that Ernest will ever spurn Harry?—­they are brothers!” said poor Mrs. Schroder.