The sun seemed miles above him, a pale phantom, luminous through the green waters. It grew brighter. He reached the surface. It blazed upon him. The church bells stopped suddenly. Everything stopped. His heart stopped. There was a great silence. He was too tired to breathe. He clasped his hands, lifted them slowly above his head, and went down for the third time. As he sank he heard the head-master say: “Luke Sparrow—first prize”; he saw the glitter of the Mayor’s grand chain. All his school life rushed backward through his mind, and then—he was flinging down a rattle on the nursery floor, and the matron’s voice was saying: “Poor little ‘Returned Empty.’ He won’t even play with his rattle.” “I’m really drowning now,” he thought. “The fools are right. This is my past life.” “_What does he want?_” said the matron’s voice. “_Who is he calling?_” Then—something burst in his brain, and in flaming letters of living fire a name illumined the icy blackness. “MIRIAM! My wife! Miriam, my Love, my life! Good God, I can’t leave her!... Miriam, I’m coming! Hold on, I am coming!” The weeds had him this time, but he fought like a madman. “Miriam! Belovèd!” His lungs were bursting, but he kept out the water. Tons weight pressed down his hands, but he lifted them. “Miriam, my Love! I am coming!” The sun reappeared, a pale disc—no, by God! a dead face! He was caught again. Sea-weed? No; white hands, catching at his throat, throttling him. Curse them! What matter they, while his wife waits. He fought on. “My Love, I am coming!” He broke free and rose—rose—rose. The sun—Great God!—the air! He breathed, choked, gasped, breathed again; lay on the surface, and panted. His ribs seemed jammed upon his heart; but, as he breathed, they lifted. His lungs expanded; his sight cleared; his heart beat more steadily. “Oh, belovèd! Miriam! Miriam! Are you there? All else is a dream, save our great love, my perfect, perfect mate.” Slowly he turned and looked toward the shore. Far away, so far away; but he could see the line of cliffs and the house—his home and hers—standing clear against the fir woods. The upper windows seemed on fire, as they reflected the gold of the sunrise. He measured the distance between himself and the shore. Could he swim it? He started a slow breast stroke, his eyes upon those flaming windows. Then he remembered the telescope. He made out the balcony. Dear God! Was she watching? Of course she was watching. He fancied he could see a white figure. He waved his arm and smiled. A glory of love was on his face. “Miriam,” he said, knowing the powerful lens brought him quite near and she would see him speak; “Miriam, you said I should remember all, if I remembered your name. And I do; oh, my belovèd, I do!” As he swam, the sunlight caught the wedding-ring—her wedding-ring-upon his finger. He missed a stroke to hold it up, then press it to his lips. “I am coming, Sweet! I am coming!” Then he swam on.