She recalled how she had stretched out her arms toward the magic blue horizon. He spent the evening telling her stories of Greece as she sat in front of a roaring fire. " "It ought to be; it cost enough to get it here," said the Scot, ruefully. When I think of the love you give me—One ought to give you back love. I've a shrewd guess where he's taken refuge; but I'll ferret him out. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. It never is.
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