“You mean the Atlantic?” he returned, looking round. “Yes, I think so. I am glad she is not a patient of mine. I fear she is going to be very feverish, probably delirious before morning. She won’t sleep much, and will talk rather loud when the tide comes in.” “Disease has often an ebb and flow like the tide, has it not?” “Often. Some diseases are like a plant that has its time to grow and blossom, then dies; others, as you say, ebb and flow again and again before they vanish.” “It seems to me, however, that the ebb and flow does not belong to the disease, but to Nature, which works through the disease. It seems to me that my life has its tides, just like the ocean, only a little more regularly. It is high water with me always in the morning and the evening; in the afternoon life is at its lowest; and I believe it is lowest again while we sleep, and hence it comes that to work the brain at night has such an injurious effect on the system. But this is perhaps all a fancy.” “There may be some truth in it. But I was just thinking when you spoke to me what a happy thing it is that the tide does not vary by an even six hours, but has the odd minutes; whence we see endless changes in the relation of the water to the times of the day. And then the spring-tides and the neap-tides! What a provision there is in the world for change!” “Yes. Change is one of the forms that infinitude takes for the use of us human immortals. But come and have some tea, Turner. You will not care to go out again. What shall we do this evening? Shall we all go to Connie’s room and have some Shakspere?” “I could wish nothing better. What play shall we have?” “Let us have the _Midsummer Night’s Dream,”_ said Ethelwyn. “You like to go by contraries, apparently, Ethel. But you’re quite right. It is in the winter of the year that art must give us its summer. I suspect that most of the poetry about spring and summer is written in the winter. It is generally when we do not possess that we lay full value upon what we lack.” “There is one reason,” said Wynnie with a roguish look, “why I like that play.” “I should think there might be more than one, Wynnie.” “But one reason is enough for a woman at once; isn’t it, papa?” “I’m not sure of that. But what is your reason?” “That the fairies are not allowed to play any tricks with the women. _They_ are true throughout.” “I might choose to say that was because they were not tried.” “And I might venture to answer that Shakspere--being true to nature always, as you say, papa--knew very well how absurd it would be to represent a woman’s feelings as under the influence of the juice of a paltry flower.” “Capital, Wynnie!” said her mother; and Turner and I chimed in with our approbation. “Shall I tell you what I like best in the play?” said Turner. “It is the common sense of Theseus in accounting for all the bewilderments of the night.”