She and Karl had loved it from the very first: in those days when they were upon the sea, those supreme days of uncomprehended happiness. They sat in the twilight then and watched day withdraw and night spread itself over the waters. They loved the mystery of it, for it was one with the mystery of their love; they loved it for reasons to be told only in great silences, knowing unreasoningly, that they were most close together then. And after that they came to love the twilight for the things it bequeathed them. "Don't you remember," he would say, "we left it just as the sun was setting. Aren't you glad we can remember it so?" It was as if their love could take unto itself most readily that which came to it in the mystic hour of closing day. And when they returned, during that first year of joy in their work, they loved the hour of transition as an hour of rest. Their day's work was done; in the evening they would study or read or in some way occupy themselves, but because they had worked all through the day they could rest for a short time in the twilight. And they would tell of what they had done; of what they hoped to do; if there had been discouragements they would tell of them, and with the telling they would draw away. In the light of closing day the future's picture was unblurred. They loved their hour then as true workers love it; it was good to sink with the day to the half lights of rest and peace. Now it was all different, but they clung to their love for it still. Through the heart of the day, during those hours which from his early boyhood had been to him working hours, this removal from life brought to the man a poignancy of realisation which beat with undiminishing force against the wall of his endurance. It was when he finished his breakfast and the day's work would naturally begin that it came home to him the hardest. They would go into the library, and Ernestine would read to him--how she delved into the whole storehouse of literature for things to hold him best--and how great her joy when she found something to make the day pass a little less hard than was the day's wont! He would listen to her, loving her voice, and trying to bring his mind to what she read, but all the while his thoughts reaching out to what he would be doing if his life as worker were not blotted out. The call of his work tormented him all through the day, and the twilight was the time most bearable because it was an hour which had never been filled with the things of his work. In that short hour he sometimes, in slight measure found, if not peace, cessation from struggle. "This is what I would be doing now," he told himself, and with that, when the day had not drawn too heavily upon him, he could rest a little, perhaps, in some rare moments, almost forget.