that through his hands ran the long rope of the world at which
men--like a crew of sailors--tug at the Ship of Life, trying to tow
her into some divine haven.

His task was ended. Would it be of service? Would it carry any
message? Would it kindle in American homes some new light of truth,
with the eyes of mothers and fathers fixed upon it, and innumerable
children of the future the better for its shining?

"Are you coming?" she called more quiveringly.

"I am coming," he called back, breaking away from his revery, and
raising his voice so it would surely reach her.



II. THE TREE AND THE SUNSET


She had quitted the house and, having taken a few steps across the
short frozen grass of the yard as one walks lingeringly when expecting
to be joined by a companion, she turned and stood with her eyes fixed
on the doorway for his emerging figure.

"To-morrow night," he had said, smiling at her with one meaning in his
words, "to-morrow night you will understand."

"Yes," she now said to herself, with another meaning in hers,
"to-morrow night I must understand. Until to-morrow night, then,
blinded and bewildered with holly and cedar let me be! Kind