As to Swan, he looked over the river of Time that separated him from love and happiness, and saw his idol and ideal standing on the farther bank, dressed in purple and fine linen, with jewels of his own adorning.  Like Bunyan’s “shining ones,” she seemed to him far lifted out of the range of ordinary thought and expression, into the regions of inspired song.  Now that he was really going to the East, the image of Dorcas in his heart took on itself, with a graceful readiness, the gold of Ophir, the pomps of Palmyra, and the shining glories of Zion.  He longed to “crown her with rose-buds, to fill her with costly wine and ointments,”—­to pour over her the measureless bounty of his love, from the cornucopia of Fortune.

“Dorcas,” said he,—­and his words showed how inadequately thoughts can be represented,—­“Dorcas, I know your father thinks nothing at all of me now; but, supposing I come back in two years, with—­with—­say five thousand dollars!—­then, Dorcas!”

The bright, soft eyes looked pleadingly at her.

Truly, in those days of simplicity and scant earnings, five thousand dollars did seem likely to be an overwhelming temptation to the owner of the Fox farm.

“But,—­Swan!” said the blushing girl, releasing herself from his grasp, and stepping back.

“Yes, Dorcas!—­yes!—­once!—­only once!”

He came between her and the image of Henry Mowers; he was going away; she might never see him again.  A vague sentiment, composed of pleasure, pity, admiration, and ambition, but having the semblance only of timidity in her rosy face and downcast eyes, made her yield her shrinking form, for one moment, to his trembling and passionate caress, and the next, she ran as swiftly as a deer to the house.

Swan’s eyes followed her.  With his feet, he dared not.  His bounding heart half-choked him with pleasant pain.  All be had not said,—­all he had meant to say to Dorcas, of his well-laid plans, his good-luck, his hopes,—­all he had meant to entreat of her constancy, for in the infrequent communications between the two countries there was no hope of a correspondence,—­all he had meant to say to her of his fervent love, of his anguish at separation, of the joy of reunion, and that his love would leave him only with his life,—­if he could only have told her!  But then he never would or could have put it all into words, if Dorcas had stayed with him under the pear-tree till the next morning.

He thought of the Colonel’s pride, and how it would come down, at the sight of Swan Day returning to Walton with five thousand dollars in his coat-pocket, and mounted, perhaps, on an elephant!  If he had held a foremost social position in Walton, even while selling tape and mop-sticks, molasses and rum, at the country-store, what might not be the impression on the public mind at seeing the glittering plumage of this “bird let loose from Eastern skies, when hastening fondly home”?  There was much balm for wounded pride to be gathered in this Oriental project.