One morning, they saw the sun rise with a serenity and majesty which it rarely has outside of the theatre.  The dawn began over that sea which was like the rumpled canvas imitations of the sea on the stage, under long mauve clouds bathed in solemn light.  Above these, in the pale tender sky, two silver stars hung, and the steamer’s smoke drifted across them like a thin dusky veil.  To the right a bank of dun cloud began to burn crimson, and to burn brighter till it was like a low hill-side full of gorgeous rugosities fleeced with a dense dwarfish growth of autumnal shrubs.  The whole eastern heaven softened and flushed through diaphanous mists; the west remained a livid mystery.  The eastern masses and flakes of cloud began to kindle keenly; but the stars shone clearly, and then one star, till the tawny pink hid it.  All the zenith reddened, but still the sun did not show except in the color of the brilliant clouds.  At last the lurid horizon began to burn like a flame-shot smoke, and a fiercely bright disc edge pierced its level, and swiftly defined itself as the sun’s orb.

Many thoughts went through March’s mind; some of them were sad, but in some there was a touch of hopefulness.  It might have been that beauty which consoled him for his years; somehow he felt himself, if no longer young, a part of the young immortal frame of things.  His state was indefinable, but he longed to hint at it to his companion.

“Yes,” said Eltwin, with a long deep sigh.  “I feel as if I could walk out through that brightness and find her.  I reckon that such hopes wouldn’t be allowed to lie to us; that so many ages of men couldn’t have fooled themselves so.  I’m glad I’ve seen this.”  He was silent and they both remained watching the rising sun till they could not bear its splendor.  “Now,” said the major, “it must be time for that mud, as you call it.”  Over their coffee and crackers at the end of the table which they had to themselves, he resumed.  “I was thinking all the time—­we seem to think half a dozen things at once, and this was one of them—­about a piece of business I’ve got to settle when I reach home; and perhaps you can advise me about it; you’re an editor.  I’ve got a newspaper on my hands; I reckon it would be a pretty good thing, if it had a chance; but I don’t know what to do with it:  I got it in trade with a fellow who has to go West for his lungs, but he’s staying till I get back.  What’s become of that young chap—­what’s his name?—­that went out with us?”

“Burnamy?” prompted March, rather breathlessly.

“Yes.  Couldn’t he take hold of it?  I rather liked him.  He’s smart, isn’t he?”

“Very,” said March.  “But I don’t know where he is.  I don’t know that he would go into the country—.  But he might, if—­”

They entered provisionally into the case, and for argument’s sake supposed that Burnamy would take hold of the major’s paper if he could be got at.  It really looked to March like a good chance for him, on Eltwin’s showing; but he was not confident of Burnamy’s turning up very soon, and he gave the major a pretty clear notion why, by entering into the young fellow’s history for the last three months.