e beneath
the trees that grow by the River of Life? So easy, _mes amis_! Only
believe. Do not delay, but come. Why not to-night?" We are further
from yon purple-crowned heights than you wot of, good friends. Between
us and that golden radiance lie many miles of dusty road, lies even
the Valley of the Shadow, through which we have passed. And now, as we
are emerging from that same Valley, out upon the broad high tablelands
of Understanding, we turn and see the distant loveliness, and we halt
and stumble, and (sometimes) lose our way.

"_She should never have looked on me,
If she meant I should not love her!
There are plenty--men, you call such,
I suppose--she may discover
All her soul to, if she pleases,
And yet leave much as she found them:
But I'm not so, and she knew it
When she fixed me, glancing round them._"

XXX

Chains rattling, winches groaning, sun shining, longshoremen shouting,
breezes blowing.

"_God's in His heaven--
All's right with the world._"

And the dock postman (dear old Postie, who cadges sticks of hard
tobacco and cigars from us when he brings good news) is standing on
the quay while the ship is being moved into her new berth, and he
waves a batch of letters when he sees me looking towards him. So! I
have been burrowing in our boilers, testing the scale, inspecting
stays and furnace crowns, and the joy of working has come back to me.
I was solemn last evening, melancholic and somewhat metaphysical it
seems; but let it stand. 'Tis morning, and Postie's on the quay.

I breakfast alone. The others are ashore, but they will appear during
the day to finish up and to bestow mementoes on the wretched one they
leave behind. And so I sit smoking my pipe by the mess-room fire;
Postie descends, beaming expectantly. He hands me two letters, one
from my friend, one from----

There was a thick mist before my eyes, the fire seemed an infinitely
distant red blur, and Postie, several continents away, was burbling
about possible promotions, good voyage, fine weather, tobacco, and the
like. Forgive me, old man, but your letter lay unopened for a while. I
poured tobacco and cigars into Postie's pockets, and sat down to think
things out. Was it foolish of me to sit down to think? To set down
the problem thus: Here am I, a man of infinite, almost unknowable
latent possibilities, suddenly repossessed of the supreme power and
glory of life. How