He
threw open the windows. The morning air was cold and sweet--the sparrows
were beginning to chirp in the garden-plots below. Surely that black
night was over and gone.
If only he could see Natalie for one moment, to assure her that he had
succumbed but once, and for the last time, to despair. It was a
confession he was bound to make; it would not lessen her trust in him.
For now all through his soul a sweet, clear voice was ringing: it was
the song the sunrise had brought him; it was the voice of Natalie
herself, with all its proud pathos and fervor, as he had heard it in the
olden days:
"A little time we gain from time
To set our seasons in some chime,
For harsh or sweet, or loud or low,
With seasons played out long ago--
And souls that in their time and prime
Took part with summer or with snow,
Lived abject lives out or sublime,
And had there chance of seed to sow
For service or disservice done
To those days dead and this their son.
"A little time that we may fill
Or with such good works or such ill
As loose the bonds or make them strong,
Wherein all manhood suffers wrong.
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