afar, and it went to afar, and still it shone where his hand
might touch it. It turned like a wheel, from the gulf to the height
and around again. He followed its round--ocean and climbing vapor,
cloud, rain, and far mountain springs, descent and the mother sea. The
mind, expanding, ceased to examine radius by radius, but held the
whole wheel. Alexander sat in inner quiet, forgetting December.

Turning from that contemplation, he yet remained still, looking now at
the sunshine on the steps.... There seemed to reach him, within and
from within, rays of color and fragrance, the soul of spice pinks,
marigolds, and pansies.... Then, within and from within, Elspeth was
with him.

Dead! She was not dead.... Of all idle words--!

It was not as a shade--it was not as a memory, or not as the poor
things that were called memory! But she came in the authority and
integrity of herself, that was also, most dearly, most marvelously,
himself as well--permeative, penetrative, real, a subtle breath named
Elspeth! So subtle, so wide and deep, elastic, universal, with no
horizons that he could see.... To and fro played the tides of
knowledge.

Elspeth all along--sunshines and shadows--Elspeth a wide, living
life--not crushed into the two moments upon which he had brooded--not
the momentary Elspeth who had walked the glen with him, not the
momentary Elspeth lifted from the Kelpie's Pool, borne in his arms,
cold, rigid, drowned, a long, long way! But Elspeth, integral,
vibrant, living--Elspeth of centillions of moments--Elspeth a
beautiful power moving strongly in abundant space....

His form stayed moveless upon the river steps while the wave of
realization played.

The experience linked itself with that of the other night when the
stony bed of existence, broken, harsh, irregular, had suddenly
dissolved into connections myriad wide, deep, and fine.... He had
prated with philosophers of oneness. Then what he had prated of had
been true! There was a great difference between talking of and
touching truth....

But he could not hold the touch. The wings flagged, he fell into the
jungle of words. His body turned upon the steps. The caves and dens of
his being began to echo with cries and counter-cries.

Hurt? Had she not been hurt at all? But she _was_ hurt--poisoned,
ruined, drawn to death! Had she long and wide and living power to heal
her own harm? Still was it not there--he would have it there!

Ian Rullock! With a long, inward,