THE TOWN. 67

 worth while,- but what a slow and placid
 shame) fills the dreamer against the wall, that
 there should ever have been any anxiety or
 wonder or grief in life. What arrogance to
 wonder! What folly to grieve! It is all as it
 should be, somehow and somewhere. It is not
 worth while to question how and where. A
 leaf from the vine hanging over the wall drifts
 down through the still heat: as well that it
 should set itself to question the currents of the
 ocean, lying in a blue and shimmering curve
 against a sky which is pale with light. No,
 it is not worth while; nothing is worth while,
 and yet all things are.

 Gardens sleep behind these high walls, which
shut them in so closely from the silent street,
that it seems as though the air never stirs under
the shadows of the oranges and oleanders. The
only movement is the thread of water, trickling
from the mossy basin of the fountain in the
centre, and then losing itself in the deep grass;
though if a sunbeam through the roof of leaves
strikes it, it has one sparkling instant of jewelled