life between was full of peace as far as eye could see. The plains were
bountiful with golden harvest, and the activities of men were lost among
the corn. Horses and cattle in the distance were as insects, and in the
great concave sky stars still wan from the intolerant light of their
master, the Sun, looked timidly out to see him burn his way down to the
under-world.

"Great--but it might have been greater!" added Orlando, gazing intently
at the sunset.

Yet, as he spoke, his eyes gazed at something infinitely farther away
than the sunset-even to the goal of his desire. He was thinking that,
great as the day had been, with all he had done and seen, it lacked a
glimpse of the face he had not seen for a whole month. The voice, he had
not heard it since it softly cried, "Oh, Orlando!" when the Chinaman
crashed down the staircase with the tray of cherished porcelain, and had
been maltreated by the owner of Tralee.

How many times since then had those words rung in his ears! Louise had
never called him by name save that once, and then it was the cry of a
soul surprised, the wail of one who felt a heart-break coming on, the
approach of merciless Fate. It was the companionship of trouble; it was
the bird, pursued by a hawk, calling across the lonely valley to its
mate. "Oh, Orlando!" He had waked in the morning with the words in his
ears to make him face the day with hope and cheerfulness. It had sounded
in his ears at night as he sat on the wide stoop watching the moon and
listening to the night-birds, or vaguely heard his mother babbling things
he did not hear.

It is a memorable moment for a man when he hears for the first time his