be gone. He stood upright painting at arm's length with a full brush
and broad sweep of wrist and arm. Gobs of paint from the tubes melted
into pearly-grays and purples in the middle of his palette to be
quickly transposed and placed tone beside tone like a pale mosaic
enriched and blended by the soft fingers of Time. His motive was
simple--a rock, some trees, a stretch of sandy waste, backed by a
rugged hill and a glimpse of sea, all bathed in mist; and his brush
moved decisively, heavily at times, lightly, caressingly at others as
the sketch grew to completion, while his dark eyes glowed behind their
hideous goggles, and the firm lines at his mouth relaxed in a smile.
For this moment at least he was tasting immortality--and it was good.

High above him in the air there moved a speck, growing larger with
every moment, but he did not see it or hear the faint staccato sounds
which proclaimed its identity. The speck moved toward the sea and
then, making a wide turn over the beach, swept inland near the earth
noiselessly, and deposited itself with a quivering groan which
startled him, directly in the unfinished foreground of the painter,
throwing its occupant in a huddled heap upon the ground.

It had been a lovely foreground of sand and stubble, iridescent with
the dew, rich with the broken grays and violets of the reflected
heavens. And now--

He dropped his palette and brushes and ran forward, suddenly alive to
the serious nature of the interruption. Upon the grass, stretched
prone, face downward, lay a figure in leather cap, blouse and
leggings. But as his hand touched the leather shoulder, the aviator
moved and then sat upright, facing him. At the same moment the sun,
which had been hesitating for some moments on the brink of the