with an
invisible current. One expected to see its great petals open.

For some reason, Claude began to think about the far-off times
and countries it had shone upon. He never thought of the sun as
coming from distant lands, or as having taken part in human life
in other ages. To him, the sun rotated about the wheatfields. But
the moon, somehow, came out of the historic past, and made him
think of Egypt and the Pharaohs, Babylon and the hanging gardens.
She seemed particularly to have looked down upon the follies and
disappointments of men; into the slaves' quarters of old times,
into prison windows, and into fortresses where captives
languished.

Inside of living people, too, captives languished. Yes, inside of
people who walked and worked in the broad sun, there were
captives dwelling in darkness, never seen from birth to death.
Into those prisons the moon shone, and the prisoners crept to the
windows and looked out with mournful eyes at the white globe
which betrayed no secrets and comprehended all. Perhaps even in
people like Mrs. Royce and his brother Bayliss there was
something of this sort--but that was a shuddery thought. He
dismissed it with a quick movement of his hand through the water,
which, disturbed, caught the light and played black and gold,
like something alive, over his chest. In his own mother the
imprisoned spirit was almost more present to people than her
corporeal self. He had so often felt it when he sat with her on
summer nights like this. Mahailey, too, had one, though the walls
of her prison were so thick--and Gladys Farmer. Oh, yes, how much
Gladys must have to tell this perfect confidant! The people whose
hearts were set high needed such intercourse--whose wish was so
beautiful that there were no experiences in this world to satisfy
it. And these children of the moon, with their unappeased
longings and futile dreams, were a finer race than the children
of the sun. This conception flooded the boy's heart like a second
moonrise, flowed through him indefinite and strong, while he lay
deathly still for fear of losing it.

At last the black cubical object which had caught Leonard
Dawson's wrathful eye, came rolling along the highroad. Claude
snatched up his clothes and towels, and without waiting to make
use of either, he ran, a white man across a bare white yard.
Gaining the shelter of the house, he found his bathrobe, and fled
to the upper porch, where he lay down in the hammock. Presentl