consciousness of the race. Somehow, his simple manhood, the
inheritance in his blood of men and women, who had loved, fused the
conflict of his nature to a singleness of purpose and won peace now.

What he said was: "Come on, my friend, the enemy! I'm right here on
the job; nailed, you bet, long as she does it! Just to come alive is
worth being crucified."

"Hullo," bawled a towsled head through the cabin window. "Aren't you
going to turn in? It's exactly twelve o'clock! Darn it all! Don't
make a sleep-walking Lady Macbeth tragedy out of it! Chuck the bally
thing and come on down to the Valley! Why do you waste your life
pretending you are Providence steering the whole earth? Chuck it,
Dickie! If you were in town, I'd give you a cocktail! Got anything up
here?"

Wayland went to sleep to dream one of those dreams that envelop day
with rain-bow mist. He dreamed that the amethyst gates of the sun had
swung ajar flooding life with countless charioteers each carrying a
golden spear, and as they advanced over the clouds to earth, all the
little purple heather bells that had hung their heads during the night
to keep out the dew, all the waxy chalices of the winter-greens pale
and faint with passion, all the bells nodding to the wind, began
ringing--ringing ten thousand golden bells; and the painter's brush,
multicolored dazzling knee-deep in the Alpine meadows, flaunted
countless torches of carmine flame to welcome back the day. Then,
suddenly, it wasn't a sound of bells at all. It was her voice, her
voice with the golden note and the liquid break that came when he had
surprised Love in her eyes; and it wasn't the warmth of the Sun's
fan-shaped shafts at all; it was the warmth of her lips in the face of