The first star of the evening steadied and brightened, and soon was lost amid other stars. Below, the river set its constellations as silently, one after another, trembling and blinking; and meteor tugs shot across its firmament, in white and green and red. Along shore the old Artichoke Tavern, gables and piles, darkened and melted away, and then lit into a little Orion, a bright cluster in the bespangled riverside. Ever some new sail came like a ghost up reach out of the gloom, rounded the point, and faded away; and by times some distant voice was heard in measured cry over water. They said little; for what need to talk? They loitered awhile near the locks, and saw the turning Trinity light with its long, solemn wink, heard a great steamer hoot, far down Woolwich reach. Now the yellow in the sky was far and dull indeed, and a myriad of stars trembled over the brimming river. A tug puffed and sobbed, and swung out from the group under the wharf, beating a glistering tail of spray, and steaming off at the head of a train of lighters. Out from the dark of Woolwich Reach came a sailing-ship under bare spars, drawn by another tug. In the middle of the river the ship dropped anchor, and the tug fell back to wait, keeping its place under gentle steam. They walked on the wharf, by the iron cranes, and far to the end, under the windows of the abandoned Brunswick Hotel. Here they were quite alone, and here they sat together on a broad and flat-topped old bollard. Presently said Johnny, “Are you sorry for the dance now—Nora?” And lost his breath at the name. Nora—he called her Nora; was she afraid or was she glad? What was this before her? But with her eyes she saw only the twinkling river, with the lights and the stars. Presently she answered. “I was very sorry,” she said slowly . . . “of course.” “But now—Nora?” Still she saw but the river and the lights; but she was glad; timid, too, but very glad. Johnny’s hand stole to her side, took hers, and kept it. . . . “No,” she said, “not sorry—now.” “Say Johnny.” What was before her mattered nothing; he sat by her—held her hand. . . . “Not sorry now—Johnny!” Why came tears so readily to her eyes? Truly they had long worn their path. But this—this was joy. . . . He bent his head, and kissed her. The wise old Trinity light winked very slowly, and winked again. So they sat and talked; sometimes whispered. Vows, promises, nonsense all—what mattered the words to so wonderful a tune? And the eternal stars, a million ages away, were nearer, all nearer, than the world of common life about them. What was for her she knew now and saw—she also: a new heaven and a new earth. Over the water from the ship came, swinging and slow, a stave of the chanty:— “I’m a flying-fish sailor straight home from Hong-Kong— Aye! Aye! Blow the man down! Blow the man down, bully, blow the man down— O give us some time to blow the man down!