enough to hold all mankind, and made to be launched right out into the open waves of life,—­and here it has been lying, one end on the shore and one end bobbing up and down in the water, men fighting all the time as to who should be captain and who should have the state-rooms, and throwing each other over the side because they could not agree about the points of compass, but the great vessel never getting afloat with its freight of nations and their rulers;—­and now, Sir, there is and has been for this long time a fleet of “heretic” lighters sailing out of Boston Bay, and they have been saying, and they say now, and they mean to keep saying, “Pump out your bilge-water, shovel over your loads of idle ballast, get out your old rotten cargo, and we will carry it out into deep waters and sink it where it will never be seen again; so shall the ark of the world’s hope float on the ocean, instead of sticking in the dock-mud where it is lying!”

It’s a slow business, this of getting the ark launched.  The Jordan was n’t deep enough, and the Tiber was n’t deep enough, and the Rhone was n’t deep enough, and the Thames was n’t deep enough, and perhaps the Charles is n’t deep enough; but I don’t feel sure of that, Sir, and I love to hear the workmen knocking at the old blocks of tradition and making the ways smooth with the oil of the Good Samaritan.  I don’t know, Sir,—­but I do think she stirs a little,—­I do believe she slides;—­and when I think of what a work that is for the dear old three-breasted mother of American liberty, I would not take all the glory of all the greatest cities in the world for my birthright in the soil of little Boston!

—­Some of us could not help smiling at this burst of local patriotism, especially when it finished with the last two words.

And Iris smiled, too.  But it was the radiant smile of pleasure which always lights up her face when her little neighbor gets excited on the great topics of progress in freedom and religion, and especially on the part which, as he pleases himself with believing, his own city is to take in that consummation of human development to which he looks forward.

Presently she looked into his face with a changed expression,—­the anxiety of a mother that sees her child suffering.

You are not well,—­she said.

I am never well,—­he answered.—­His eyes fell mechanically on the death’s-head ring he wore on his right hand.  She took his hand as if it had been a baby’s, and turned the grim device so that it should be out of sight.  One slight, sad, slow movement of the head seemed to say, “The death-symbol is still there!”

A very odd personage, to be sure!  Seems to know what is going on, —­reads books, old and new,—­has many recent publications sent him, they tell me, but, what is more curious, keeps up with the everyday affairs of the world, too.  Whether he hears everything that is said with preternatural acuteness, or whether some confidential friend visits him in a quiet way, is more than I can tell.  I can make nothing more of the noises I hear in his room than my old conjectures.  The movements I mention are less frequent, but I often hear the plaintive cry,—­I observe that it is rarely laughing of late;—­I never have detected one articulate word, but I never heard such tones from anything but a human voice.