Presently he seemed to waken to the fact that he was looking upwards far into the sky. Through the soft white mists he could discern a single speck of silver gleaming frostily. Suddenly, with a cold vibration in his veins, he recalled how in his tender infancy he had seen that particular orb shining above the shutters of the little room. In an instant the crooning song upon his lips had changed to a moan of anguish. Yet it passed immediately. Peering at the star he seemed to recognize it as the symbol of his kinship with this immensity; as the pledge of his correlation with the universal order. With a sense of exultation his thoughts reverted to that sanctuary from whose precincts he had beheld it first. It was with him still. And was not a benign spirit ever there to bestow consolation upon a hapless wayfarer whose journeyings were hopeless, endless, fruitless, fraught with cruel degradation? He still lay in the boat, not feeling hunger nor susceptible to the cold of the night. Time and space had lost their significance. He would only ask to lie where he was, on the bosom of the waters, that he might croon his strange songs for ever. But as his gaze was still fixed on the only star that was abroad in all the vast canopy, the recollection of the little room and of him who dwelt there, shaped itself more definitely. He must return; he was being drawn thither by irresistible forces. His destiny must be fulfilled. The keel of the boat began to grind on the sand. He listened to the melodious yet uncouth tones of the old boatman--the old ferryman, who had piloted him across the bosom of eternity. “We’ve been out six hours,” said the old boatman. “It is nigh half-past eight.” The young man stepped ashore with cramped and stiff limbs. “What is half-past eight, Father Charon?” he said, with a hoarse, happy laugh. Hardly had the returned voyager uttered these irrelevant words when a voice of curious import came on his ears. He shuddered as though he had felt the impact of a knife upon his flesh. “Luney, Luney!” cried the voice, “I have been looking for you for hours, all along the shore. You were not at the station, so I made sure you had drowned yourself. What a madman you are; where do you suppose you have been? As long as I live I will never bring you to Margate again.” “Oh yes,” said the returned voyager, with a weary shiver, “I know that voice--that voice is as familiar to me as the stars of the night.” XXVIII William Jordan’s startling misconduct on this historic day was not lightly passed over by that distinguished circle of which Mr. James Dodson was the natural leader. They made rather a point of insisting that their accomplished friend should forego the society of the culprit for the future.