leap up in a weird monotonous joy to
catch the unearthly light. From inland, rolling across the moorland,
came phantom-like masses of vaporous cloud, driven on by the fierce wind
which boomed across the open country, and shrieked and yelled amongst
the pine plantations as though mad with a sudden hellish joy. On the
verge of the cliff he stretched out his arms, as though to welcome the
wild din of the night. The thunder of the ocean, seething and leaping
against the rocks below, shook the air around him. The salt spray leaped
up into his white face, and the winds blew against him, and the
passionate cry of saddened nature rang in his deafened ears. At that
moment those things were a joy to him.

And there came to him then something of that strange sweet calm which
lays its soothing hand for a moment upon those who stand face to face
with death, or any other mighty crisis. Looking steadfastly far away,
beyond the foaming waste of waters to where one faint streak of
stormlight shone on the horizon, pictures of the past began to rise up
before his eyes. He saw himself again a happy, light-hearted child,
riding gaily upon his father's shoulder, and laughing up into the
beautiful face of his youthful mother. The memories of that time, and of
his first home, came back to him with a peculiar freshness and
fragrance, like a painting by one of the old masters, perfect in design,
and with its deep rich coloring softened and mellowed by age. He
remembered the bright beauty of those sunny southern gardens, where he
had passed long hours listening to the gentle splashing of the water in
the worn grey fountain bowl, and breathing in the soft spring-like air,
faint with the sweetness of Roman violets. And, half unconsciously, his
thoughts travelled on to the time when all the pure beauty of his
surroundings--for his had been an artist's home--had begun to have a
distinct meaning for him, and in the fervor of an esthetic and unusually
thoughtful youth, he had dreamed, and felt, and tasted deep of pleasures
which the world yields only to those who stoop to listen to her secrets,
with the quickened sensibilities and glowing imagination of the
artist--one of her own children. He had read her in such a way that he
found himself struggling, even in early boyhood, for some means of
expression--but at that time none had come to him. The fruits of his
later life had been the result of his early experience, but how
embittered, how saddened by