I had told to that old Aunt Effie who keeps house for Miggy and Little Child something of what I thought to do--breaking in upon the old woman's talk of linoleum and beans and other things having, so to say, one foot in the universe. "Goodness," that old woman had answered, with her worried turn of head, "I'm real glad you're going to be here. _I dread saying anything._" Here too we must look to the larger day when the state shall train for parenthood and for citizenship, when the schools and the universities shall speak for the state the cosmic truths, and when by comparison botany and differential calculus shall be regarded as somewhat less vital in ushering in the kingdom of God. The water reservoir rose slim against the woods to the north; to the south was a crouching hop house covered with old vines. I said to Little Child:-- "Look everywhere and tell me where you think a princess would live if she lived here." She looked everywhere and answered:-- "In the water tower in those woods." "And where would the old witch live?" I asked her. "In the Barden's hop house," she answered. "And where would the spirit of the little child be?" I tested her. She looked long out across the water. "I think in the sunset," she said at last. And then of her own will she said over the Sunset Spell I have taught her:-- "I love to stand in this great air And see the sun go down. It shows me a bright veil to wear And such a pretty gown. Oh, I can see a playmate there Far up in Splendour Town." I could hardly bear to let her go home, but eight o'clock is very properly Little Child's bedtime, and so I sent her across the bridge waving her hand every little way in that fashion of children who, I think, are hoping thus to save the moment that has just died. I have known times when I, too, have wanted to wave my hand at a moment and keep it looking at me as long as possible. But presently the moment almost always turned away. Last night I half thought that the sunset itself would like to have stayed. It went so delicately about its departure, taking to itself first a shawl of soft dyes, then a painted scarf, then frail iris wings. It mounted far up the heavens, testing its strength for flight and shaking brightness from its garments. And it slipped lingeringly away as if the riot of colour were after all the casual part, and the real business of the moment were to stay on with everybody. In the tenuity of the old anthropomorphisms I marvel that they did not find the sunset a living thing, tender of mortals, forever loth to step from out one moment into the cherishing arms of the next. Think! The sunset that the Greeks knew has been flaming round the world, dying from moment to moment and from mile to mile, with no more of pause than the human heart, since sunset flamed for Hero and Helen and Ariadne.