expressive. The quality of light may be compared 

 to the timbre of sound. Sometimes — as at noon — 

 it is like the blare of brass, and, again, it has the 

 softness of wood-winds, the tenderness of violins 

 and cellos. 



The receding day carries with it the disquieting 

 influences, and night exorcises the demons of 

 unrest. They scurry away with the sunset clouds 

 on the horizon like fleeing witches. As if in obe- 

 dience to some silent command, the sea becomes 

 passive. He must be distraught indeed who can 

 look at it now without coming under the spell of 

 the hour — the serene hour. It is as if the passion 

 and strife of life had been succeeded by the beau- 

 tiful calm of death. To gaze on the mute and 

 motionless ocean at ebb-tide is to be inevitably 

 inspired to reflection, so potent is the suggestion 

 of repose. Apparently the forces of Nature have 

 conspired together for peace. 



Death ? Nay, rather transfiguration, for now the 

 sea is illumined by a golden radiance. Stretches 

 of burnished copper and molten gold merge one 

 into the other; areas again of liquid silver, and 

 beyond, the vast ethereal blue. Out of the coves 

 shadows come creeping and stealing over the water, 

 aoo 



