a life, a thing of the Creative Faculty,--breathing back already the
breath it had received. This work had paused during Leonard's residence
with Mr. Avenel, or had only now and then, in stealth, and at night,
received a rare touch. Now, as with a fresh eye he reperused it, and
with that strange, innocent admiration, not of self--for a man's work is
not, alas! himself,--it is the beautified and idealized essence,
extracted he knows not how from his own human elements of clay;
admiration known but to poets,--their purest delight, often their sole
reward. And then with a warmer and more earthly beat of his full heart,
he rushed in fancy to the Great City, where all rivers of fame meet, but
not to be merged and lost, sallying forth again, individualized and
separate, to flow through that one vast Thought of God which we call
THE WORLD.

He put up his papers; and opened his window, as was his ordinary custom,
before he retired to rest,--for he had many odd habits; and he loved to
look out into the night when he prayed. His soul seemed to escape from
the body--to mount on the air, to gain more rapid access to the far
Throne in the Infinite--when his breath went forth among the winds, and
his eyes rested fixed on the stars of heaven.

So the boy prayed silently; and after his prayer he was about,
lingeringly, to close the lattice, when he heard distinctly sobs close at
hand. He paused, and held his breath, then looked gently out; the
casement next his own was also open. Someone was also at watch by that
casement,--perhaps also praying. He listened yet more intently, and
caught, soft and low, the words, "Father, Father, do you hear me now?"