The Indian Lily and Other Stories Part 44

Is that not the goodly earth beneath my feet--the black, hard, stable earth?

It is but a tiny islet formed of frozen mud and roots; it is scarcely two paces across, but large enough to give security to my sinking body.

I am ash.o.r.e, saved, for only a few arm lengths from me arises the reedy line of the sh.o.r.e.

A drove of wild ducks rises in diagonal flight. ... Purple radiance pours through the twigs of trees.... From nocturnal heavens the first stars s.h.i.+ne upon me.

The ghostly game is over! The faery hunt is as an end.

One truth I realise: He who has firm ground under his feet needs no faeries.

And serenely I stride into the sunset world.