Once
during the night she woke from a troubled dream in her berth and
for a moment she thought she was at home again. They were running
through mountains again and there they lay in the moonlight, the
great calm dark faces that she knew and loved, and she seemed to
catch the odour of the earth and feel the cool air on her face,
but there was no pang of homesickness now--she was too eager for
the world into which she was going. Next morning the air was
cooler, the skies lower and grayer--the big city was close at
hand. Then came the water, shaking and sparkling in the early
light like a great cauldron of quicksilver, and the wonderful
Brooklyn Bridge--a ribbon of twinkling lights tossed out through
the mist from the mighty city that rose from that mist as from a
fantastic dream; then the picking of a way through screeching
little boats and noiseless big ones and white bird-like floating
things and then they disappeared like two tiny grains in a
shifting human tide of sand. But Hale was happy now, for on that
trip June had come back to herself, and to him, once more--and
now, awed but unafraid, eager, bubbling, uplooking, full of quaint
questions about everything she saw, she was once more sitting with
affectionate reverence at his feet.
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