Up from the valleys came song,
To answer the morning stars,
And the hand of man on the anvil rang;
His breath was big in his breast, his life
Beat strong on the walls of the world.
(Glad is the wind and tall is the fire.)"

He put his hands to his eyes, and took them away again, as though to make
sure that the song was not a dream. Wonder grew upon his thin, bearded
face, he ran his fingers through his thick hair in a dazed way. Then he
lay and looked, and a rich warm flush crept over his cheek, and stayed
there.

There was a great gap in his memory.

The evening wore on. Once or twice the woman turned towards the room
where the man lay, and listened--she could not see his face from where
she stood. At such times he lay still, though his heart beat quickly,
like that of an expectant child. His lips opened to speak, but still they
remained silent. As yet he was like a returned traveller who does not
quickly recognise old familiar things, and who is struggling with vague
suggestions and forgotten events. As time went on, the woman turned
towards the doorway oftener, and shifted her position so that she faced
it, and the sparks, flying up, lighted her face with a wonderful
irregular brightness.

"Samantha," he said at last, and his voice sounded so strange to him that
the word quivered timidly towards her.

She paused upon a stroke, and some new note in his voice sent so sudden a