All the fearlessness, the mournfulness, the mysticism of the Indian face was there.

Franklin always said that he had worked at this unconsciously, kneading the lump between his fingers, and giving it no thought other than that it felt cooling to his hand and restful to his mind.

Yet here, born ultimately of the travail of a higher mind, was a man from another time, in whose gaze sat the prescience of a coming day.

The past and the future thus were bridged, as may be done only by Art, the enduring, the uncalendared, the imperishable.
Shall we say that this could not have been?
Shall we say that Art may not be born in a land so young?
Shall we say that Art may not deal with things uncatalogued, and dare not treat of unaccepted things?
Nay, rather let us say that Art, being thought, has this divine right of elective birth.

For out of tortures Art had here won the deep _imprimatur_.
Edward Franklin, a light-hearted man, rode homeward happily.