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the immeasurable relief, the almost passionate joy, of one who
for the first time is able to gratify a new and marvelous
appetite.  With his eyes, his soul, all these late-born,
strange, appreciative powers, he ministered to an appetite which
seemed unquenchable.  It was dusk when he came out, his cheeks
burning, his eyes bright.  He carried a new music, a whole world
of new joys with him, but his most vital sensation was one of
glowing and passionate sympathy.  They were splendid, these
heroes who had seen the truth and had struggled to give life to
it with pencil or brush or chisel, that others, too, might see
and understand.  If only one could do one’s little share!  He
walked slowly along, absorbed in his thoughts, unconscious even
of the direction in which his footsteps were taking him.  When
at last he paused, he was outside a theatre.  The name of Ibsen
occupied a prominent place upon the boards.  From somewhere
among the hidden cells of