with ocean, is not more dear than the first glimpse of the approaching
sail to watching eyes on shore.

Was it in truth the packet vessel for whose coming he had yearningly
waited, or the dark wing of a soaring bird, or did it exist only in
imagination? The tide of his impatience rose anew as the dim object
slowly resolved itself into the semblance of a sail, shrouded in the
pale, damp light of early morning. Unwilling to admit to his usually
grave unimpressible self the fact that he was restless and disturbed,
he reduced his pace to a dignified march, extended his chosen beat to
a wider margin of the sandy shore, and, parting the blighted branches
of a group of trees, that bore evidence of the effect of constant
exposure to lake winds, he affected to examine them critically. But
the hand that touched the withered leaves trembled, and his sight was
dimmed with something closely resembling the morning's mist. When he
again raised his eyes to that white-sailed vessel it looked to his
hopeless gaze absolutely becalmed. The slow moments dragged heavily
along. The mantle of fog was wholly lifted at last, and the lonely
watcher was enveloped in the soft beauty of the morning. A light cloud
hung motionless, as though spell-bound, above the mute and moveless
trees, while before him the dead blue slopes of heaven were unbroken
by a single flying bird, the wide waste of water unlighted, save by
that unfluttering sail.

And now, like a visible response to his silent but seemingly
resistless longing, a boat was rapidly pushed away from the larger
craft, and the swift flash and fall of the oars kept time to the
pulsing in the old man's breast. Again ensued that inglorious conflict
between self-respecting sobriety of demeanour and long suppressed
emotion, which ended only when the boat grated on the sand, and a