was one of those hours that come occasionally in that sublime period of
unshattered ideals and unsullied faith, for which Pharaoh and Cæsar
would have exchanged their thrones, Croesus and Lucullus bartered their
wealth, Solomon and Aristotle forgotten their learning.

Every imaginative youth who has been reared in pure surroundings
experiences over again in these rare and radiant hours all the bliss
that Adam knew in Eden. To his joyous, eager spirit, the world appears a
new creation fresh from the hand of God. He hears its author walking in
the garden at eventide, and murmuring: "Behold it is very good." A
single element of disquietude, a solitary, vague unrest disturbs him. He
awaits his Eve with longing, but has no dread of the serpent.

At sight of this young man the most superficial observer would have
paused to take a second look; an artist would have instinctively seized
his pencil or his brush; a scientist would have paused to inquire what
mysterious influences could have produced so finely proportioned a
nature; a philosopher to wonder what would become of him in some sudden
and powerful temptation.

None of these reflections disturbed the mind of the barefooted boy.
Having suppressed his laughter, he tickled the sunburnt neck again. Once
more the hand rose automatically, and once more the boy was almost
strangled with delight. The dreamer was hard to awaken, but his
tormentor had not yet exhausted his resources. No genuine boy is ever
without that fundamental necessity of childhood, a pin, and finding one
somewhere about his clothing, he thrust it into the leg of the plowman.
The sudden sting brought the soaring saint from heaven to earth. In an
instant the mystic was a man, and a strong one, too. He seized the
unsanctified young reprobate with one hand and hoisted him at arm's