Not a soul was in sight,--the actual day had not yet begun.

The hill torrent flowed along with a subdued purling sound over the rough stones and pebbles,--there had been little rain of late and the water was shallow, though clear and bright enough to gleam like a wavering silver ribbon in the dimness of the early morning,--and as he followed it upward and finally reached a point from whence the open sea was visible he rested a moment, leaning on his stick and looking backward on the way he had come.

Strangely beautiful and mystical was the scene his eyes dwelt upon,--or rather perhaps it should be said that he saw it in a somewhat strange and mystical fashion of his own.

There, out beyond the furthest edge of land, lay the ocean, shadowed just now by a delicate dark grey mist, which, like a veil, covered its placid bosom,--a mist which presently the rising sun would scatter with its glorious rays of gold;--here at his feet nestled Weircombe,--a cluster of simple cottages, sweetly adorned by nature with her fairest garlanding of springtime flowers,--and behind him, just across a length of barren moor, was the common highroad leading to the wider, busier towns.

And he thought as he stood alone,--a frail and solitary figure, gazing dreamily out of himself, as it were, to things altogether beyond himself,--that the dim and shadowy ocean was like the vast Unknown which we call Death,--which we look upon tremblingly,--afraid of its darkness, and unable to realise that the sun of Life will ever rise again to pierce its gloom with glory.