cate green, each leaf
glossed as if it had been varnished, this unheroic-hero, this
pantheistic-devotee, this heathenized-Christian, this
half-happy-go-lucky aethestic Bohemian, lay upon his pillow, the
incarnation of absolute repose.

And so the morning broke, and the early birds began to chirp in the ivy
and to prune their plumage and flutter among the leaves; and down the
street tramped the feet of the toilers on their way to forge and dock.
Over the harbor came the daffodil light from the sun-tipped eastern
hills, and it painted the waves that lapped the sleek sides of a yacht
lying at anchor under the hill. A yacht that Paul had watched many a day
and dreamed of many a night; for he often longed with a great longing to
slip cable and hie away, even unto the uttermost parts.

II.

WHAT THE SUN SHONE ON

He shone on the far side of the eastern azure hills and set all the tree
tops in the wood beyond the wold aflame; he looked over the silhouette
out of a cloudless sky upon a Bay whose breadth and beauty is one of the
seven hundred wonders of the world; he paved the waves with gold, a path
celestial that angels might not fear to tread. He touched the heights of
the Misty City and the sea-fog that had walled it in through the night
as with walls of unquarried marble--albeit the eaves had dripped in the
darkness as after a summer shower--and anon the opaque vapors dissolved
and fled away. There she lay, the Misty City, in all her wasted and
scattered beauty; she might have been a picture for Poets to dream on
and Artists to love--their wonder and their despair--but she is not; she
is hideous to look upon save in the sunset or the after-glow when you
cannot see her, but only the dim vision of what she might have been.

He rose as a God refreshed with sleep and called the weary to their
work, and disturbed the slumbers of those that toil not and spin not,
and have nothing to do but sleep.

There were no secrets from him now; every detail was discovered; and so
having gilded for a moment the mossy shingles of the Eyrie he stole into
the room where Paul Clitheroe passed most of his waking hours, and
through the curtain of ivy and geraniums that screened the conservatory
from the eyes of the curious world, and where Paul was at this moment
sleeping the sleep of the just. From the bed of the ravine below the
Eyrie rose the rumble and roar of traffic. The hours passed by. The
sleeper began to turn uneasily on hi