He knew of old that the only word was
'wars,' most difficult to bring in naturally and spontaneously, and
with the wrong sound in any case.
'He must have been writing poetry out there,' he reflected finally,
'or else living it. Living it, probably. He's a grand fellow anyhow,
grand as a king.' Stars, wars, kings, thrones-=the words flew in and
out among a maze of unaccomplished lines.
But the last thing in his mind as he curled up to sleep in the strange
bed was that he had delivered his wife's message, but that he could
not tell her about this sudden collapse of the great, long-talked-of
Scheme. Albinia would hardly understand. She might think less of his
chief. He would wait until the new one dawned upon the horizon with
its beauty of the stars. Then he would simply overwhelm her with it,
as his temperament loved to do.
CHAPTER XXX
Lo, every yearning thought that holds a tear,
Yet finds no mission
And lies untold,
Waits, guarded in that labyrinth of gold,--
To reappear
Upon some perfect night,
Deathless--not old--
But sweet with time and distance,
And clothed as in a vision
Of starry brilliance
For the world's delight.
JOHN HENRY CAMPDEN.
Then, as the days passed, practical life again caught Henry Rogers in
its wholesome grip.
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