Somehow or other he ceased these restless pacings of his, and was attracted to the window, though he gazed but absently on the slow change taking place outside--the world-old wonder of the new day rising in the east. Up into that steely-gray glides a soft and luminous saffron-brown; it spreads and widens; against it the far dome of St. Paul's becomes a beautiful velvet-purple. A planet, that had been golden when it was in the dusk near the horizon, has now sailed up into the higher heaven, and shines a clear silver point. And now, listen! the hushed and muffled sounds in the silence; the great city is awakening from its sleep--there is the bark of a dog--the rumble of a cart is heard. And still that saffron glow spreads and kindles in the east, and the dome of St. Paul's is richer in hue than ever; the river between the black-gray bridges, shines now with a cold light, and the gas-lamps have grown pale. And then the final flood of glory wells up in the eastern skies, and all around him the higher buildings catch here and there a swift golden gleam: the sunrise is declared; there is a new day born for the sons and daughters of men. The night had fled, and with it the hideous phantoms of the night. It seemed to him that he had escaped from the grave, and that he was only now shaking off the horror of it. Look at the beautiful, clear colors without; listen to the hum of the city awakening to all its cheerful activities; the new day has brought with it new desires, new hopes. He threw open the windows. The morning air was cold and sweet--the sparrows were beginning to chirp in the garden-plots below. Surely that black night was over and gone. If only he could see Natalie for one moment, to assure her that he had succumbed but once, and for the last time, to despair. It was a confession he was bound to make; it would not lessen her trust in him. For now all through his soul a sweet, clear voice was ringing: it was the song the sunrise had brought him; it was the voice of Natalie herself, with all its proud pathos and fervor, as he had heard it in the olden days: "A little time we gain from time To set our seasons in some chime, For harsh or sweet, or loud or low, With seasons played out long ago-- And souls that in their time and prime Took part with summer or with snow, Lived abject lives out or sublime, And had there chance of seed to sow For service or disservice done To those days dead and this their son. "A little time that we may fill Or with such good works or such ill As loose the bonds or make them strong, Wherein all manhood suffers wrong. By rose-hung river and light-foot rill There are who rest not; who think long Till they discern, as from a hill, At the sun's hour of morning song, Known of souls only, and those souls free, The sacred spaces of the sea."