II.

WHAT THE SUN SHONE ON

He shone on the far side of the eastern azure hills and set all the tree tops in the wood beyond the wold aflame; he looked over the silhouette out of a cloudless sky upon a Bay whose breadth and beauty is one of the seven hundred wonders of the world; he paved the waves with gold, a path celestial that angels might not fear to tread.  He touched the heights of the Misty City and the sea-fog that had walled it in through the night as with walls of unquarried marble—­albeit the eaves had dripped in the darkness as after a summer shower—­and anon the opaque vapors dissolved and fled away.  There she lay, the Misty City, in all her wasted and scattered beauty; she might have been a picture for Poets to dream on and Artists to love—­their wonder and their despair—­but she is not; she is hideous to look upon save in the sunset or the after-glow when you cannot see her, but only the dim vision of what she might have been.

He rose as a God refreshed with sleep and called the weary to their work, and disturbed the slumbers of those that toil not and spin not, and have nothing to do but sleep.

There were no secrets from him now; every detail was discovered; and so having gilded for a moment the mossy shingles of the Eyrie he stole into the room where Paul Clitheroe passed most of his waking hours, and through the curtain of ivy and geraniums that screened the conservatory from the eyes of the curious world, and where Paul was at this moment sleeping the sleep of the just.  From the bed of the ravine below the Eyrie rose the rumble and roar of traffic.  The hours passed by.  The sleeper began to turn uneasily on his pillow.  The sound of hurrying feet was heard upon the board walks in front of the Eyrie-cliff; many voices, youthful voices, swelled the chorus that told of the regiments of children now hastening to school.  From dreamland Paul returned by easy stages to the work-a-day world.  He arose, donned a trailing garment with angel sleeves and a large crucifix embroidered in scarlet upon the breast—­that robe made of him a cross between a Monk and a Marchioness—­slipped his feet into sandals and entered the larger chamber which was at once living-room and library.  He opened the shutters in the deep bay window and greeted the day with the silent solemnity of a fire-worshipper; gave drink to his potted palms and ferns and flowering plants; let his eye wander leisurely over the titles of his books; lingered a little while over his favorites and patted some of them fondly on the back.  Taking a small key from its nail by the door he opened the mail box without, carrying his letters to his writing table and leaving them there unopened.  He loved to speculate as to whom the writers were and what they may have said to him.  This piqued his curiosity, and tided him over a scant breakfast at an inexpensive but fly-blown restaurant where he was wont to eat