A pause followed, during which we sat and watched the marvellous depth
of the heavens, deep as I do not think I ever saw them before or since,
covered with a stately procession of ever-appearing and ever-vanishing
forms--great sculpturesque blocks of a shattered storm--the icebergs of the
upper sea. These were not far off against a blue background, but floating
near us in the heart of a blue-black space, gloriously lighted by a golden
rather than silvery moon. At length my wife spoke.

"I hope Mr. Percivale is out to-night," she said. "How he must be enjoying
it if he is!"

"I wonder the young man is not returning to his professional labours," I
said. "Few artists can afford such long holidays as he is taking."

"He is laying in stock, though, I suppose," answered my wife.

"I doubt that, my dear. He said not, on one occasion, you may remember."

"Yes, I remember. But still he must paint better the more familiar he gets
with the things God cares to fashion."

"Doubtless. But I am afraid the work of God he is chiefly studying at
present is our Wynnie."

"Well, is she not a worthy object of his study?" returned Ethelwyn, looking
up in my face with an arch expression.

"Doubtless again, Ethel; but I hope she is not studying him quite so much
in her turn. I have seen her eyes following him about."