stone. To this Ferne moved, threw himself down, and with a moaning sigh
closed his eyes. There had been long days and sleepless nights; there
had been, once his brain had ceased to whirl, the growth of a purpose
slowly formed, then held like iron; there had been the humble pleading
for freedom, the long delay, the hope deferred; then, his petition
granted, the going forth to mart and highway, the bargaining, amidst
curious traffickers, for that rotting ship, for those lives, as
worthless as his own, which yet must have their price. This going forth
was very bad; like hot lead within the gaping wound, like searing
sunshine upon the naked eye. And now, to-day, not an hour since, Arden!
to mock, to goad, to torture--

Slowly, slowly, the sun went down the west, and the peace of the garden
deepened. Very stealthily the quiet stole upon him; softly, silently,
with spirit touch, it brought him healing simples. Utterly weary as he
was, the balm of the hour at last flowed over him, faintly soothing,
faintly caressing. He opened his eyes, and breathing deeply, looked
about him with a saner vision than he had used of late.

The lily by the broken stair slept on, but the thrush sang once again.
The bell-like note died into the charmed stillness, and all things were
as they had been. Thirty paces away, stark against the evening sky, rose
the western wall of Ferne House, and it was shaggy with ivy that was
rooted like a tree, wide-branched, populous with birds' nests, and high,
high against the blue a thing of tenderest sprays and palest leaves. The
long ridge of them kept the late sunshine, and so far was it lifted
above the earth, so still in that dreamy hour, so touched with pale
gold, so distant and so delicate against high heaven, that it caught and
held eye and soul of the man for whom Fate had borrowed Ixion's wheel.
He gazed until the poet in him sighed with pure pleasure; then came