Last evening he had ordered her from his presence, as usual ashamed that she should witness his embrace of that mistress of his passions, Night, who incites him to the blackest of his crimes. Yet this morning she tiptoes down to his vast chamber, pale and sleepy-eyed in her diaphanous _peignoir_, there to hover over him, eager and fearful to give the early call. Will he arise blustering, splash about in his bath and growl forenoon complaints at her until she can no longer smile--until she further angers him with tears? Or will his mood be equable? Will he respond to her sunny smiles and the sweet-zephyred nothings which she best knows to whisper in his ear? Amiable enough he looks. But then, amiability usually characterizes the sleep of his billowy sort of spouse. Subconsciously he must have heard her step, for he sighs, tosses restlessly and flings up shapeless arms as though to enfold her. Forgiveness flushes Day’s cheeks, her finger-tips, her dainty toes. Forgiveness is the power by which, through the blisses and tribulations of æons of their marital state, she has remained his dearest love and inspiration. It has kept her face fresh as when, in their infancy, the Great Minister made them one. It has enabled her to forget his brutalities of yesterday in the hope of kindness to-day. Never comes a morn without much for them to do. For him there are ships to be tided from shore to shore, flying things of the air to be cradled when in need of rest, myriads of monsters and minnows to be fed, shells, pearls and corals to fashion in his spare time. And she never rests from dawn to dark in her effort to keep the sky clear that she may smile something of her own vitality into all living things under her eye, be they fishes of the sea, fowl of the air, or man from the various islands which so irritate her irascible consort. All looks well for her now, unless---- An over-shoulder glance she casts about the horizon. There is an ominous look over there, a somewhat darker speck against the banks of gray. Are her archest enemies, the trio of fire-eyed Cyclops, planning interference with the mercies of her upper air? No matter what portends, she must awaken her lord. Usually he scowls for hours should she be late about his call. Forcing a smile, she droops over him until, with bride-like ardor, she kisses him on the lips. A moment his watery eyes gaze into hers. Then he gulps from pleasure at the desirable sight of her; lurches toward her; makes a clutch at her scant draperies. But not for a moment does she allow herself to be caught to his moist, palpitant breast. Something immediate demands her attention. She makes excuse--a monster beetle without wings then appearing from the direction of land. With sweet-soft adjurations that her lazy old Sea fall not again into a doze, she hurries to meet and greet the gleaming thing. * * * * *