Портрет художника в юности

           Shetoldtooofcertainchangestheyhadseeninheroflateandofheroddwaysandsayings.Hesatlisteningtothewordsandfollowingthewaysofadventurethatlayopeninthecoals,archesandvaultsandwindinggalleriesandjaggedcaverns.

           Suddenlyhebecameawareofsomethinginthedoorway.Askullappearedsuspendedinthegloomofthedoorway.Afeeblecreaturelikeamonkeywasthere,drawnthitherbythesoundofvoicesatthefire.Awhiningvoicecamefromthedoorasking:

           —IsthatJosephine?

           Theoldbustlingwomanansweredcheerilyfromthefireplace:

           —No,Ellen,it’sStephen.

           —OO,goodevening,Stephen.

           Heansweredthegreetingandsawasillysmilebreakoverthefaceinthedoorway.

           —Doyouwantanything,Ellen?askedtheoldwomanatthefire.

           Butshedidnotanswerthequestionandsaid:

           —IthoughtitwasJosephine.IthoughtyouwereJosephine,Stephen.

           And,repeatingthisseveraltimes,shefelltolaughingfeebly.

           Hewassittinginthemidstofachildren’spartyatHarold’sCross.Hissilentwatchfulmannerhadgrownuponhimandhetooklittlepartinthegames.Thechildren,wearingthespoilsoftheircrackers,dancedandrompednoisilyand,thoughhetriedtosharetheirmerriment,hefelthimselfagloomyfigureamidthegaycockedhatsandsunbonnets.