ever find again such utter faith, such pure unaffected loyalty and
devotion as throbbed within that small, warm heart? How could he ever
bid "Good-bye" to loving, eager, little Small Porges?

And then there was Miss Priscilla, and the strong, gentle Sergeant, and
Peterday, and sturdy Adam, and Prudence, and the rosy-cheeked maids. How
well they all suited this wonderful Arcadia! Yes, indeed he, and he
only, had been out of place, and so--he must go--back to the every-day,
matter-of-fact world, but how could he ever say "Good-bye" to faithful,
loving Small Porges?

Far in the East the grey streak had brightened, and broadened, and was
already tinged with a faint pink that deepened, and deepened, as he
watched. Bellew had seen the glory of many a sun-rise in divers wild
places of the Earth, and, hitherto, had always felt deep within him, the
responsive thrill, the exhilaration of hope new born, and joyful
expectation of the great, unknown Future. But now, he watched the
varying hues of pink, and scarlet, and saffron, and gold, with gloomy
brow, and sombre eyes.

Now presently, the Black-bird who lived in the apple-tree beneath his
window, (the tree of the inquisitive turn of mind), this Black-bird
fellow, opening a drowsy eye, must needs give vent to a croak, very
hoarse and feeble; then, (apparently having yawned prodigiously and
stretched himself, wing, and leg), he tried a couple of notes,--in a
hesitating, tentative sort of fashion, shook himself,--repeated the two
notes,--tried three, found them mellower, and more what the waiting
world very justly expected of him; grew more confident; tried four;
tried five,--grew perfectly assured, and so burst forth into the full,
golden melody of his morning song.

Then Bellew, leaning out from his casement, as the first bright beams of
the rising sun gilded the top-most leaves of the tree, thus
apostrophised the unseen singer:

"I suppose you will be piping away down in your tree there, old fellow,
long after Arcadia has faded out of my life. Well, it will be only
natural, and perfectly right, of course,--She will be here, and may,
perhaps, stop to listen to you. Now if, somehow, you could manage to
compose for me a Song of Memory, some evening when I'm gone,--some
evening when She happens to be sitting idle, and watching the moon rise
over the upland yonder; if, at such a time, you could just manage to
remind her of--me, why--I'd thank you. And so,--Good-bye, old fellow!