“Little shoes are sold at the gateway of Heaven
And to all the tattered little angels are given,”
sang Celeste.
Her listener turned and looked at her with her figure silhouetted against the glowing western sky, not a line of her exquisitely moulded proportions escaping him.
“Slumber, my darling Dodo,
Dodo—dodo—”
From what chamber in his memory does that echo come? What is this indescribable something that courses like fire through his veins? With that curious double consciousness which sometimes comes to us in tense moments, Hernando’s mind is thousands of miles away. From the tumultuous life of mining camps, he is travelling down, down to the very seething cauldron of nether life; that pest-house of thought filled with the “moanings of spirit.”
“Dodo, dodo
Ave Maria—Dodo,”