And so in the blaze of new morning, in the beginnings of a new life, Joe and Myra leaned over the rail of the boat, coming back, coming back to the ramparts and heights of the great World City.  They saw full in the glory of the morning sun those tiers on tiers of towers rising to their lonely pinnacle.  Beneath them harbor craft scurried about in the bright waters; above them rose the Big Brothers of the city looking out toward the sea.  It seemed some vision builded of no human hands.  It seemed winged and uplifted toward the skies, an immensity of power and beauty.  It seemed to float on measureless waters, a magic metropolis, setting sail for the Arabian Nights.

Tears came into Joe’s eyes.  He held Myra’s hand fast.

“Are you glad to get back?”

“Yes, glad, Joe.”

“No more peace, no more green earth, Myra.”

“I know it, Joe.”

“Even our honeymoon—­that can’t be repeated, can it?”

“No,” she said, sadly, “I guess it cannot.”

“And this means work, hardship, danger, injustice—­all the troubles of mankind.”

She pressed his hand.

“Yet you’re glad, Myra!”

“I am.”

“Tell me why.”

“Because,” she mused, “it’s the beginning of our real life together.”

“How so real?”

Myra’s eyes were suffused with tears.

“The common life—­the life of people—­the daily toil—­the pangs and the struggles.  I’m hungry for it all!”

He could have kissed her for the words.

“We’ll do, Myra,” he cried, “we’ll do.  Do you know what I see this morning?”

“What?”

“A new city!  My old city, but all new.”

“It’s you that is new, Joe.”

“And that’s why I see the new city—­a vision I shall see until some larger vision replaces it.  Shall I tell you about it?”

“Tell me.”

“It is the city of five million comrades.  They toil all day with one another; they create all of beauty and use that men may need; they exchange these things with each other; they go home at night to gardens and simple houses, they find happy women there and sunburnt, laughing children.  Their evenings are given over to the best play—­play with others, play with masses, or play at home.  They have time for study, time for art, yet time for one another.  Each loosens in himself and gives to the world his sublime possibilities.  A city of toiling comrades, of sparkling homes, of wondrous art, and joyous festival.  That is the city I see before me!” He paused.  “And to the coming of that city I dedicate my life.”

She sighed.

“It’s too bright, too good for human nature.”

“Not for human nature,” he whispered.  “If only we are patient.  If only we are content to add our one stone to its rising walls.”

She pressed his hand again.

“Joe,” she murmured, “what do you think you’ll be doing a year from now?”