gazing down between the curving line of lamp-posts, across the belt
of black river with its flecks of yellow light. But Ruth watched him
only.

"Arnie," she whispered in his ear, "there are no fairy ships upon
the river to-night."

He smiled.

"Why not, little one? You have only to close your eyes."

Slowly she shook her head.

"Don't think that I am foolish, dear," she begged. "To-night I
cannot look upon the river at all. I feel that there is something
new here--here in this room. The great things are here, Arnold. I
can feel life hammering and throbbing in the air. We aren't in a
garret any longer, dear. It's a fairy palace. Listen. Can't you hear
the people shout, and the music, and the fountains playing? Can't
you see the dusky walls fall back, the marble pillars, the lights in
the ceiling?"

He turned his head. He found himself, indeed, listening, found
himself almost disappointed to hear nothing but the far-off, eternal
roar of the city, and the melancholy grinding of a hurdy-gurdy
below. Always she carried him away by her intense earnestness, the
bewitching softness of her voice, even when it was galleons full of
treasure that she saw, with blood-red sails, coming up the river,
full of treasure for them. To-night her voice had more than its
share of inspiration, her fancies clung to her feverishly.