“‘The rocks closed over it. Nine hundred fathoms deep, in a still, dark pool it lay. The green lichen hung from the rocks. No sunlight came there, and the stars could not look down at night. The pool lay still and silent. Then, because it was alive and could not rest, it gathered its strength together, through fallen earth and broken debris it oozed its way silently on; and it crept out in a deep valley; the mountains closed it around. And the streamlet laughed to itself, ‘Ha, ha! I shall make a great lake here; a sea!’ And it oozed, and it oozed, and it filled half the plain. But no lake came--only a great marsh--because there was no way outwards, and the water rotted. The grass died out along its edges; and the trees dropped their leaves and rotted in the water; and the wood dove who had built her nest there flew up to the mountains, because her young ones died. And the toads sat on the stones and dropped their spittle in the water; and the reeds were yellow that grew along the edge. And at night, a heavy, white fog gathered over the water, so that the stars could not see through it; and by day a fine white mist hung over it, and the sunbeams could not play on it. And no man knew that once the marsh had leapt forth clear and blue from under a hood of snow on the mountain’s top: aye, and that the turning of one stone might have caused that it had run on and on, and mingled its song with the sea’s song for ever.’” The stranger was silent for a while. Then he said, “Should he answer you and say, ‘What do I care! What are coves and mountain tops to me? Gold is real, and the power to crush men within my hand’; tell him no further. “But if by some chance he should listen, then, say this one thing to him, clearly in the ear, that he may not fail to hear it: ‘The morning may break grey, and the midday be dark and stormy; but the glory of the evening’s sunset may wash out for ever the remembrance of the morning’s dullness, and the darkness of the noon. So that all men shall say, ‘Ah, for the beauty of that day!’--For the stream that has once descended there is no path upwards.--It is never too late for the soul of a man.’ “And if he should laugh, and say: ‘You fool, a man may remake himself entirely before twenty; he may reshape himself before thirty; but after forty he is fixed. Shall I, who for forty-three years have sought money and power, seek for anything else now? You want me to be Jesus Christ, I suppose! How can I be myself and another man?’ Then answer him: ‘Deep in the heart of every son of man lies an angel; but some have their wings folded. Wake yours! He is larger and stronger than another man’s; mount up with him!’ “But if he curses you, and says, ‘I have eight millions of money, and I care neither for God nor man!’--then make no answer, but stoop and write before him.” The stranger bent down and wrote with his finger in the white ashes of the fire. Peter Halket bent forward, and he saw the two words the stranger had written.