In a minute or two she looked in again, all ready. I rose, laid aside my Plato, and went with her. We turned our steps along the edge of the down, and descended upon the breakwater, where we seated ourselves upon the same spot where in the darkness I had heard the voices of Joe and Agnes. What a different night it was from that! The sea lay as quiet as if it could not move for the moonlight that lay upon it. The glory over it was so mighty in its peacefulness, that the wild element beneath was afraid to toss itself even with the motions of its natural unrest. The moon was like the face of a saint before which the stormy people has grown dumb. The rocks stood up solid and dark in the universal aether, and the pulse of the ocean throbbed against them with a lapping gush, soft as the voice of a passionate child soothed into shame of its vanished petulance. But the sky was the glory. Although no breath moved below, there was a gentle wind abroad in the upper regions. The air was full of masses of cloud, the vanishing fragments of the one great vapour which had been pouring down in rain the most of the day. These masses were all setting with one steady motion eastward into the abysses of space; now obscuring the fair moon, now solemnly sweeping away from before her. As they departed, out shone her marvellous radiance, as calm as ever. It was plain that she knew nothing of what we called her covering, her obscuration, the dimming of her glory. She had been busy all the time weaving her lovely opaline damask on the other side of the mass in which we said she was swallowed up. “Have you ever noticed, wifie,” I said, “how the eyes of our minds--almost our bodily eyes--are opened sometimes to the cubicalness of nature, as it were?” “I don’t know, Harry, for I don’t understand your question,” she answered. “Well, it was a stupid way of expressing what I meant. No human being could have understood it from that. I will make you understand in a moment, though. Sometimes--perhaps generally--we see the sky as a flat dome, spangled with star-points, and painted blue. _Now_ I see it as an awful depth of blue air, depth within depth; and the clouds before me are not passing away to the left, but sinking away from the front of me into the marvellous unknown regions, which, let philosophers say what they will about time and space,--and I daresay they are right,--are yet very awful to me. Thank God, my dear,” I said, catching hold of her arm, as the terror of mere space grew upon me, “for himself. He is deeper than space, deeper than time; he is the heart of all the cube of history.” “I understand you now, husband,” said my wife. “I knew you would,” I answered. “But,” she said again, “is it not something the same with the things inside us? I can’t put it in words as you do. Do you understand me now?” “I am not sure that I do. You must try again.”