But his
eyes were wide and unseeing, and all the inner forces of his soul were
moving slowly and mightily. His personality had nothing to do with the
matter. He painted; and affairs went on with him. His being held itself
passive, in suspension, while the forces and experiences and influences
of one phase of his life crystallized into their foreordained shapes
deep within him. Yesterday he was this; now he was becoming that; and
the two were as different beings. New doors of insight were silently
swinging open on their hinges, old prejudices were closing, fresh
convictions long snugly in the bud were unfolding like flowers. These
things were not new. They had begun many years before when as a young
boy he had stared wide-eyed, unseeing and uncomprehending, gazing down
the sun-streaked, green, lucent depths of an aisle in the forest. Bob
painted steadily on, moving his little seat nearer and nearer the
eaves. When noon and night came, he hung up his utensils very carefully,
washed up, and tramped to the rangers' camp, where he took his part in
the daily tasks, assumed his share of the conversation, entered into the
fun, and contributed his ideas toward the endless discussions.
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