the banks, as if some ghost went before to show us the way; and when the first hush and mystery wore off, Mr. Gabriel was singing little French songs in tunes like the rise and fall of the tide.  While he sang, he rowed, and Dan was gangeing the hooks.  At length Dan took the oars again, and every now and then he paused to let us float along with the tide as it slacked, and take the sense of the night.  And all the tall grass that edged the side began to wave in a strange light, and there blew on a little breeze, and over the rim of the world tipped up a waning moon.  If there’d been anything needed to make us feel as if we were going to find the Witch of Endor, it was this.  It was such a strange moon, pointing such a strange way, with such a strange color, so remote, and so glassy,—­it was like a dead moon, or the spirit of one, and was perfectly awful.

“She has come to look at Faith,” said Mr. Gabriel; for Faith, who once would have been nodding here and there all about the boat, was sitting up pale and sad, like another spirit, to confront it.  But Dan and I both felt a difference.

Mr. Gabriel, he stepped across and went and sat down behind Faith, and laid his hand lightly on her arm.  Perhaps he didn’t mind that he touched her,—­he had a kind of absent air; but if any one had looked at the nervous pressure of the slender fingers, they would have seen as much meaning in that touch as in many an embrace; and Faith lifted her face to his, and they forgot that I was looking at them, and into the eyes of both there stole a strange deep smile,—­and my soul groaned within me.  It made no odds to me then that the air blew warm off the land from scented hay-ricks, that the moon hung like some exhumed jewel in the sky, that all the perfect night was widening into dawn.  I saw and felt nothing but the wretchedness that must break one day on Dan’s head.  Should I warn him?  I couldn’t do that.  And what then?

The sail was up, we had left the headland and the hills, and when they furled it and cast anchor we were swinging far out on the back of the great monster that was frolicking to itself and thinking no more of us than we do of a mote in the air.  Elder Snow, he says that it’s singular we regard day as illumination and night as darkness,—­day that really hems us in with narrow light and shuts us upon ourselves, night that sets us free and reveals to us all the secrets of the sky.  I thought of that when one by one the stars melted and the moon became a breath, and up over the wide grayness crept color and radiance and the sun himself, —­the sky soaring higher and higher, like a great thin bubble of flaky hues,—­and, all about, nothing but the everlasting wash of waters broke the sacred hush.  And it seemed as if God had been with us, and withdrawing we saw the trail of His splendid garments,—­and I remembered the words mother had spoken to Dan once before, and why couldn’t I leave him in heavenly hands?  And then it came into my heart to pray.