red stillness as she pondered by the side of the
beloved tarn; her language was not known to common folk, for she held
high converse with the great of old time; and, when she chanced to speak
with me, I understood but dimly, though I had all the sense of beauty
and mystery. A shipwrecked sailor said she looked as if she belonged to
God. Her Master claimed her early. Dear, your yellow hair will shine no
more in the sun that you loved; you have long given over your
day-dreams--and you are now dreamless. Or perhaps you dwell amid the
silent glory of one last long dream of those you loved. The gorse on the
moor moans by your grave, the brackens grow green and tall and wither
into dead gold year by year, the lake gleams gloomily in fitful flashes
amid its borders of splendour; and you rest softly while the sea calls
your lullaby nightly. Far off, far off, my soul, by quiet seas where the
lamps of the Southern Cross hang in the magnificence of the purple sky,
there is one who remembers the lake, and the glassy ice, and the blaze
of pompous summer, and the shining of that yellow hair. Peace--oh,
peace! The sorrow has passed into quiet pensive regret that is nigh akin
to gladness.

How many other ineffable days and nights have I known? All who can feel
the thrilling of sea-winds, all who can have even one day amid grass and
fair trees, grasp the time of delight, enjoy all beauties, do not pass
in coarseness one single minute; and then, when the Guide comes to point
your road through the strange gates, you may be like me--you may repine
at nothing, for you will have much good to remember and scanty evil. It
is good for me now to think of the thundering rush of the yacht as, with
the great mainsail drawing heavily, she roared through the field of foam
made by her own splendid speed, while the inky waves on the dim horizon
moaned and the dark summer midnight brooded warmly over the dark sea. It
is good to think of the strange days when the vessel was buried in
wreaths of dark cloud, and the rush of the wind only drove the haze
screaming among the shrouds. The vast dim mountains might not be
pleasant to the eye of either seaman or landsman; but, when they poured
their thundering deluge on a strong safe deck, we did not mind them.
Happy hearts were there even in stormy warring afternoons; and men
watched quite placidly as the long grim hills came gliding on. Then in
the evenings there were chance hours when the dim forecastle was a