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Wright, Harold Bell, 1872-1944

"The Re-Creation of Brian Kent"

Don't you suppose I know? You and our friends have
taught me many things, Harry. I know, now, that Brian's dreams were
right. That his dreams could never be realized, does not make them
foolish nor wrong. His dreams that seemed so foolish--such impossible
ideals--were more real, after all, than this life that we think so real.
WE are the dreamers,--we and our kind,--and our awakening is as sure to
come as that river out there is sure of reaching the sea."
The man laughed harshly: "You are quite poetical, to-night. I believe I
like you better, though, when you talk sense."
"I am sorry, Harry," she returned. "Please don't be cross with me! Go
now,--please go!"
And something forced the man to silence. Slowly, he left the room. The
woman locked the door. Returning to the window, she fell on her knees,
and stretched her hands imploringly toward the tiny spot of light that
still shone against the dark shadow of the mountain-side.
Between the mighty walls of tree-clad hills that lifted their solemn
crests into the midnight sky, the dark river poured the sombre strength
of its innumerable currents,--terrible in its awful power; dreadful, in
its mysterious and unseen forces; irresistible in its ceaseless, onward
rush to the sea of its final and infinite purpose!
And here and there on the restless, ever-moving surface of the shadowy,
never-ending flood twinkled the reflection of a star.


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