y far a greater thing,
A poem such as man did never sing--
Thine own brave life, a lifelong victory.

_Literary Monthly_, 1902.

THE LIFTING OF THE CLOUDS

SHEPARD ASHMAN MORGAN '06

All day long a reeking mist had been rolling across the valley, at
times all but obscuring the Peak where it rose between its pair of
flanking hills. Sifting clouds had surged and seethed in the Cleft, as
those who dwelt in its vicinity called the interval between the two
hills and the loftier and more distant Peak, and rose now and then
barely enough to reveal the greater mountain, but never yet had quite
cleared the summit. The mist had slimed the whole world with a coating
of wet, and when the wind chanced to set the bare limbs of the trees
to swaying, the drops would spatter on the ground and scarcely be
absorbed, so waterlogged was the earth.

Mrs. Trent rolled up her knitting in a napkin, picked a few stray bits
of yarn from her black dress, and stepped to the window. She looked
out across the valley toward the Cleft to see if perchance the clouds
would open enough to permit her a view of the Peak. Not once, but many
times that day had she arisen from her work to search for a glimpse of
the mountain, but every time she had failed.

"No, it's hidden, still hidden," she murmured half aloud. "It is hard
to be shut up here with my thoughts,--with such thoughts. I wish the
clouds would lift and let me see the Peak. Then I am sure that things
would not seem so dark. If I could only get one glimpse, I would feel
almost, yes, almost as though Doctor McMurray had been here and had
told me he was sorry."

She stood looking out the window for a time, but the clouds only
gathered more heavily in the Cleft and the Peak remained shrouded in
the mist. At last she turned wearily back toward her chair, and was
about to resume her knitting when her ear caught the sound of wheels
pausing before the house. She hastened across the room toward the door
and threw it open with a gesture of fear, as though she had been
anticipating the coming of unwelcome visitors and now had reason to
suppose that they had arrived. The tremor of suspense, however,
quickly passed, for she saw outside no less a person than Doctor
McMurray himself.

"Doctor," she called, "put your horse in the barn and come in. It does
my heart good to see you."

Presently the door opened and the old minister's face appeared, that
face which had looked in at every hou