How silvery the tiny houses of the hamlet looked against the azure of
the sky! The few scattered trees that had braved the onslaughts of
repeated gales listed landward, but the pines sheltered in the hollows
of the dunes stood erect and darkly mysterious, their plumes bending
idly in the soft wind.
It was all a part of the idyl, the daydream, Robert Morton
thought,--too flawless a thing to last. Willie, so childlike and
simple, his kindly aunt, Delight with her rare beauty, and even the
romance of his love seemed a part of its unreality. Was it not to be
expected that sooner or later man with his blundering touch would
destroy the loveliness, making prose of the poem? The Galbraiths,
Snelling, the greed for money, Janoah's jealousy and evil
suspicions--ah, it did not take long for such influences to mar the
peace of a heaven and smear the grime of earth upon its fairness! Only
glimpses of perfection were granted the dwellers of this
planet,--quick, transient flashes that mirrored a future free from
finite limitations. He who expected to remain on the heights in this
world was doomed to disappointment.
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