piration,
yet so important for inspiration's expression? And why were they so
maddeningly elusive?

For a while, in her little white bed, she lay and stared hopelessly out
at the street lamp down at the corner; the glow brought out a beautiful
diffusive haze, a misty halo. "Only a signal shewn"...

The winking street lamp seemed to gaze back at her... "Sometimes a
signal flashes from out the darkness"... "Only a look"... "But who can
comprehend the unfathomable influence of a look?--It may come to a soul
wounded and despairing--a soul caught in a wide-sweeping tempest--a soul
sad and weary, longing to give up the struggle..."

Where did those words, ringing faintly in her consciousness, come from?
She didn't know, was now too sleepy to ponder deeply. But they had come;
that was a promising token. To-morrow more would come; the Valedictory
would flow on out of her soul--or into her soul, whichever way it
was--in phrases serene, majestic, ineffable.

Missy's eyelids fluttered; the street lamp's halo grew more and more
irradiant; gleamed out to illumine, resplendently, a slender girl in
white standing on a lighted stage, gazing with luminous eyes out on a
darkened auditorium, a house as hushed as when little Eva dies. All the
people were listening to the girl up there speaking--the rhythmic lift
and fall of her voice, the sentiments fine and noble and inspiring:

"Ships that pass in the night and speak each other in passing... So, on
the ocean of life, we pass and speak one another... Only a look and a
voice... But who can comprehend the unfathomable influence of a
look?... which may come to a soul sad and weary, longing to give up the
struggle..."

When she awoke next morning raindrops were beating a reiterative plaint
against the window, and the sound seemed very beautiful. She liked lying
in bed, staring out at the upper reaches of sombre sky. She liked it
to be rainy when she woke up--there was something about leaden colour
everywhere and falling rain that made you fit for nothing but placid
staring, yet, at the same time, pleasantly meditative. Then was the
time that the strange big things which filter through your dreams linger
evanescently in your mind to ponder over.

"Only a look and a voice--but who can comprehend the--the--the
unfathomable influence of a look? It may come to a soul--may come to a
soul--"

Bother! How did that go?

Missy shut her eyes and tried to resummon the vision, to rehear those