o down, the
sea, remorsefully, brings back the broken spars, and, at last, gives up
the dead.

[Sidenote: The Dominant Chord]

"Yet it is always beautiful, whether you see it grey or blue; whether it
is mad with rage or moaning with pain, or only crooning a lullaby as
the world goes to sleep. And in all the wonderful music there is one
dominant chord, for the song of the sea, as of the world, is Love.

"Long ago, Barbara--so long ago that it is written in only the very
oldest books, Love was born in the foam of the sea and came to dwell
upon the shore. And so the sea, singing forever of Love, creeps around
the world upon an unending quest. When the tide sweeps in with the cold
grey waves, foam-crested, or in shining sapphire surges that break into
pearls, it is only the sea searching eagerly for the lost. So the
loneliness and the beauty, the longing and the pain, belong to Love as
to the sea."

"Oh, Daddy," breathed Barbara, "I want it so."

"What, dear? The sea?"

"Yes. The music and the colour and the vastness of it. I can hardly wait
until I can go."

There was a long silence. "Why didn't you tell me?" asked the old man.
"There would have been some way, if I had only known."

"I don't know, Daddy. I think I've been waiting for this way, for it's
the best way, after all. When I can walk and you can see, we'll go down
together, shall we?"

"Yes, dear, surely."

"You must help me be patient, Daddy. It will be so hard for me to lie
here, doing nothing."

"I wish I could read to you."

"You can talk to me, and that's better. Roger will come over some day
and read to me, when he has time."

"He was with me yesterday, while----"

"I know," she answered, softly. "I asked him. I thought it would make it
easier for you."

[Sidenote: Father and Daughter]

"My baby! You thought of your old father even then?"

"I'm always thinking of you, Daddy, because you and I are all each other
has got. That sounds queer, but you know what I mean."

The calm, strong young woman in blue and white came back into the room.
"She mustn't talk," she said, to the blind man. "To-morrow, perhaps.
Come away now."

"Don't take him away from me," pleaded Barbara. "We'll be very good and
not say a single word, won't we?"

"Not a word," he answered, "if it isn't best."

[Sidenote: Peaceful Sleep]

The afternoon wore away to sunset, the shadows grew long, and Barbara
lay quietly, with her little hand in his. Long lines of lig