Hermas lifted the child in his arms, and turned with Athenais into the depth of the garden.  There was a dismantled shrine of some forgotten fashion of worship half hidden among the luxuriant flowers.  A fallen image lay beside it, face downward in the grass.  They stood there, hand in hand, the boy drowsily resting on his father’s shoulder—­a threefold harmony of strength and beauty and innocence.

Silently the roseate light caressed the tall spires of the cypress-trees; silently the shadows gathered at their feet; silently the crystal stars looked out from the deepening arch of heaven.  The very breath of being paused.  It was the hour of culmination, the supreme moment of felicity waiting for its crown.  The tones of Hermas were clear and low as he began, half speaking and half chanting, in the rhythm of an ancient song: 

“Fair is the world, the sea, the sky, the double kingdom of day and night, in the glow of morning, in the shadow of evening, and under the dripping light of stars.

“Fairer still is life in our breasts, with its manifold music and meaning, with its wonder of seeing and hearing and feeling and knowing and being.

“Fairer and still more fair is love, that draws us together, mingles our lives in its flow, and bears them along like a river, strong and clear and swift, rejecting the stars in its bosom.

“Wide is our world; we are rich; we have all things.  Life is abundant within us—­a measureless deep.  Deepest of all is our love, and it longs to speak.

“Come, thou final word!  Come, thou crown of speech!  Come, thou charm of peace!  Open the gates of our hearts.  Lift the weight of our joy and bear it upward.

“For all good gifts, for all perfect gifts, for love, for life, for the world, we praise, we bless, we thank—­”

As a soaring bird, struck by an arrow, falls headlong from the sky, so the song of Hermas fell.  At the end of his flight of gratitude there was nothing—­a blank, a hollow space.

He looked for a face, and saw a void.  He sought for a hand, and clasped vacancy.  His heart was throbbing and swelling with passion; the bell swung to and fro within him, beating from side to side as if it would burst; but not a single note came from it.  All the fulness of his feeling, that had risen upward like a living fountain, fell back from the empty sky, as cold as snow, as hard as hail, frozen and dead.  There was no meaning in his happiness.  No one had sent it to him.  There was no one to thank for it.  His felicity was a closed circle, a wall of eternal ice.

“Let us go back,” he said sadly to Athenais; “the child is heavy upon my shoulder.  We will lay him to sleep, and go into the library.  The air grows chilly.  We were mistaken.  The gratitude of life is only a dream.  There is no one to thank.”

And in the garden it was already night.

V