Look, the sun was rising. On the eastern sky of a sudden two golden
doors had opened in the canopy of night, and in and out of them seemed
to pass glittering, swift-winged things, as souls might tread the Gate
of Heaven. Look, too, at the little clouds that in an unending stream
floated out of the gloom--travellers pressed onwards by a breath of
destiny. They were leaden-hued, all of them, black, indeed, at times,
until they caught the radiance, and for a while became like the pennons
of an angel's wings. Then one by one the glory overtook and embraced
them, and they melted into it to be seen no more.

What did the sight suggest to him? That it was worth while, perhaps,
to be a mere drift of cloud, storm-driven and rain-laden in the bitter
Night of Life, if the Morning of Deliverance brought such transformation
on its wings. That beyond some such gates as these, gates that at times,
greatly daring, he longed to tread, lay the answer to many a mystery.
Amongst other things, perhaps, there he would learn the meaning of true
marriage, and why it is denied to most dwellers of the earth. Without
a union of the spirit was there indeed any marriage as it should be
understood? And who in this world could hope to find his fellow spirit?

See, the sun had risen, the golden gates were shut. He had been
dreaming, and was chilled to the bone. Wretchedness, mental and bodily,
took hold of him. Well, often enough such is the fate of those who
dream; those who turn from their needful, daily tasks to shape an angel
out of this world's clay, trusting to some unknown god to give it life
and spirit.