here and there over its surface, and seawards the masts of some
vessels loomed large through the shining haze.

"'How beautiful everything looks this evening!' I exclaimed.

"'I see them walking in an air of glory,' murmured my father,
dreamily.

"He was quoting from a favourite old poem, which begins--

'They are all gone into a world of light,
And I alone sit lingering here.'

"This 'air of glory,' indeed, was over everything. The mud and the
tide pools, the dark human figures, the black and white seagulls that
sat like onyx pebbles on the river bed, the stream that spread
seawards like a silver scroll, the swans that came sailing, sailing
down the stream with just such a slow and stately pace as white-winged
ships might have come down the river with the tide, to pass (as the
swans did pass) into that 'world of light,' that shining seaward haze,
where your eye could not follow them unless shaded by your hand.

"I do not quite know how long we sat gazing before us in silent
enjoyment. Neither do I know what my father's thoughts were, as he sat
with his hands clasped on his knees and his blue eyes on the river.
For my own part, I fancied myself established in one of the little
houses as 'hostess,' with a sign-board having a fish painted upon it
hanging outside the door, and a bower of woodbine, sweet-briar,
jessamine, and myrtle commanding a view of the river. The day dream
was broken by my father's voice.