"Look down yonder," said my father.
In the southwestern quarter lay a beautiful fleecy mass of cloud: the under edges touched with exquisite rose-colour, sailing slowly down the sky—pushed by that same faint north wind. Just over it—just over it, sat a little star, shining at us with its unchanging ray.
"Would your Tennessee friends see enough there to hold their thoughts for half a minute?" said I, when we had looked as long; but Mr. Ricardo did not answer me.
"That painted cloud," said my father, "is like the pleasures of earth—catching the eye with fair hues; the star, like the better pleasures, that have their source above the earth. That light fills, indeed, it may be, a much smaller space in our eye, or our fancy, than the colours on the cloud; but mark,—it is pure, bright, and undying, while the other is a vapour, that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away."
I looked at the star, and I looked at my father, and my heart was full. I thought Mr. Ricardo had got enough, and I think he thought so too, for when we reached the far end of the walk, he left us, with a very hearty shake of the hand, indeed.
My father and I walked then, without talking any more, till glow after glow passed away and night had set in. The little cloud had lost all its fair colours, and had drifted far down into the southern sky, a soft rack of gray vapour, and the star was shining steadily and brightly as ever in the deepening blue.
