“I am an image, Chiaro, of thine own soul within thee.  See me, and know me as I am.  Thou sayest that fame has failed thee, and faith failed thee; but because at least thou hast not laid thy life unto riches, therefore, though thus late, I am suffered to come into thy knowledge.  Fame sufficed not, for that thou didst seek fame:  seek thine own conscience (not thy mind’s conscience, but thine heart’s), and all shall approve and suffice.  For Fame, in noble soils, is a fruit of the Spring:  but not therefore should it be said:  ’Lo! my garden that I planted is barren:  the crocus is here, but the lily is dead in the dry ground, and shall not lift the earth that covers it:  therefore I will fling my garden together, and give it unto the builders.’  Take heed rather that thou trouble not the wise secret earth; for in the mould that thou throwest up shall the first tender growth lie to waste; which else had been made strong in its season.  Yea, and even if the year fall past in all its months, and the soil be indeed, to thee, peevish and incapable, and though thou indeed gather all thy harvest, and it suffice for others, and thou remain vext with emptiness; and others drink of thy streams, and the drouth rasp thy throat;—­let it be enough that these have found the feast good, and thanked the giver:  remembering that, when the winter is striven through, there is another year, whose wind is meek, and whose sun fulfilleth all.”

While he heard, Chiaro went slowly on his knees.  It was not to her that spoke, for the speech seemed within him and his own.  The air brooded in sunshine, and though the turmoil was great outside, the air within was at peace.  But when he looked in her eyes, he wept.  And she came to him, and cast her hair over him, and, took her hands about his forehead, and spoke again: 

“Thou hadst said,” she continued, gently, “that faith failed thee.  This cannot be so.  Either thou hadst it not, or thou hast it.  But who bade thee strike the point betwixt love and faith?  Wouldst thou sift the warm breeze from the sun that quickens it?  Who bade thee turn upon God and say:  “Behold, my offering is of earth, and not worthy:  thy fire comes not upon it:  therefore, though I slay not my brother whom thou acceptest, I will depart before thou smite me.”  Why shouldst thou rise up and tell God He is not content?  Had He, of His warrant, certified so to thee?  Be not nice to seek out division; but possess thy love in sufficiency:  assuredly this is faith, for the heart must believe first.  What He hath set in thine heart to do, that do thou; and even though thou do it without thought of Him, it shall be well done:  it is this sacrifice that He asketh of thee, and His flame is upon it for a sign.  Think not of Him; but of His love and thy love.  For God is no morbid exactor:  he hath no hand to bow beneath, nor a foot, that thou shouldst kiss it.”

And Chiaro held silence, and wept into her hair which covered his face; and the salt tears that he shed ran through her hair upon his lips; and he tasted the bitterness of shame.