To myself I acclaimed him as one to be envied.
I have always liked to believe that the splendors of that last walk endured to the end--that there was no uncertainty, no hesitation, above all, no vulgar stumbling; but that the last high step, which plunged him into the chill waters of the race, was lifted in the same exulting serenity as the first.
I stood in my garden that evening, charmed by the wild, sweet, gusty-gentle music of the spring night.
Northward, in the gathering dusk, came a solitary figure walking rapidly--a slight, nervous figure, a soft hat drawn well over the face, the skirts of its coat streaming to the breeze.

As it passed me, I recognized Solon Denney.

He was gesticulating with some violence, and I could see his expressive face work as if he uttered words to himself.

I thought it possible that he might be composing a piece for his newspaper.

Instantly there came to my mind that rather coarse paraphrase of Westley Keyts--"A hand of mush in a glove of the _same!_" I did not intrude upon my friend as he passed..