Tottering feebly across the sands down to its very foam-fringed edge, he sinks tremblingly upon his knees, and in ecstacy hugs the wet shore. His strained muscles relax, and, too spent to rise, he stretches himself upon the strand. His brain is hazy with morphine. A drowsy bliss balms his tired senses. He looks dreamily at the broad heaven (already flushed with coming day), and, fondly searching its half-forgotten face, mutters drowsily to himself: "What! _all_ that _sky_? How wide the world is!" He closes his eyes for the moment, oppressed with the weight of immensity! His mood changes suddenly to one of eager, childish delight. Far out at sea, through the soft bloom of dawn's red rose, the sun is emerging from his bath of flame, a huge disk of fire. Raising himself wearily upon his elbow, he watches its unaccustomed face with curious half-recognition. "The sun? yes, this _must_ be the sun! Ages ago he saw it rise out of the sea. Somebody was with him then. Who was it? His name was--what _was_ his name? and where _is_ he _now_?
"Dead, maybe. Everybody is dead--everybody--Tom, and the other left behind there in the grated pen! He, too, may be dying. He is faint and weary, and has so little breath after that long tramp! Ah, well! he is close to his mother now, and where else should a man die? He is tired, though--dog tired, and must rest awhile before he heaves anchor." The tide is rising. A dash of salt spray spatters his cheek. The sun comes bravely up from the sea; and, yonder, a ship is coming in. In dreamy abstraction he watches it with half-shut eyes. "How drowsy he is! How came he here? Where is he _going_? What a coil it is! No matter, he is going to sleep now; and by and by he will wake up, and get his bearings. It is all right--all well--he is in _her_ arms! How beautiful she is--the blue-eyed mother! And--hush! hark! she is singing him to sleep!" His mind wanders. He murmurs irrelevantly on--"Poor mother! She is pale and worn! It will grieve her if her boy turns in without a prayer." He tries to fumble to his knees, and fails. Recomposing his limbs, he folds his large hands, childwise, upon his breast, and distinctly and reverently repeats the old, old prayer--