It was all a mystical thrall, dominant and positive, yet vaguely transcendental, as it is here described. The actual was resolved instantly to the poetical in his mind, and in this, the beginning of the final act of his life’s drama, he became that astral dreamer and etherealist whom a few, by the perceptive comprehension of his poetry, have recognized and understood. On re-entering the town, Marlowe sought Eleanor Dare. She was sitting near the threshold of her door with Virginia, who, slight, pale, and more visionary than real, watched him with a curious eagerness and joy as he approached; for Christopher and the Indian youth were, with the exception of her mother, the sole favorites of her child heart. To her father Virginia showed a peculiar devotion, but this was often broken by moments of angry rebellion, while usually with Eleanor, and always with Manteo’s son, she seemed perfectly in accord. “Mistress Dare, I would speak to you now beyond the town, where no interruption can break in upon my sorrow.” Before Eleanor could reply, the child, looking up into Marlowe’s face, asked, half wistfully, “What is sorrow?” The poet gazed down at her and smoothed her hair. “That is a secret,” he answered, kindly. “Whose secret?” she demanded, pouting. “My mother’s?” “Yes.” “And yours?” “Yes.” “And my father’s?” “Yes, perhaps.” “And Captain Vytal’s?” The poet inclined his head. “Ay, truly, his as well.” “And is it the dark boy’s?” “Nay, not yet.” “Ah, then I am glad,” said Virginia, with a satisfied air, “for it would not be nice if he, too, had a secret that I did not know. But please tell me the secret about sorrow, Master Christopher.” She tripped over the long name, pronouncing it with difficulty. The poet smiled. “Sorrow is the secret of happiness, little White Doe; and some day, when you have lived perhaps a million years up near the sun and are entirely happy, you will say, ‘’Tis all because I guessed the secret far down there.’” She looked up at him, her eyes sparkling with pleasure. “Tell me now,” she pleaded; but seeing that he had already forgotten, she turned and, with a pout, ran off to seek her dusky playfellow. “Dark boy,” she said, on finding him near by, “I am glad you do not know the secrets I don’t know.” For a moment Eleanor watched her as here and there in the distance she flitted about the bronze figure. “I can in no way comprehend her, Master Marlowe.” “Nay, nor shall the day come in all the earthly future when she shall understand herself. Thus are some of us prescient with meaning, yet forever enigmatical, save to—save to—shall I say God?” “Yes, to God,” replied Eleanor, simply; and, rising, she walked with Marlowe into the fields beyond the town.