Page:MacGrath--The luck of the Irish.djvu/118



ILLIAM had picked up his odds and ends of life in the streets, and these, as I have already observed, had formed the basis of a cynical philosophy. But to offset this he possessed an imagination as boundless and irresponsible as the perspectives of a Chinese painter. He knew nearly all there was to know about mankind, and enough of woman to be on his guard; but he was always soaring to heaven and tumbling back to earth, and so his philosophy was less a staff to lean on than an air-cushion for his frequent bumps.

When he reached the forward rail, under the bridge, he stopped. His mind was awhirl. The two episodes, the prayer and the kindling of his heart, had shaken him profoundly. How he wanted her! How every drop of blood in his body leaped at the thought of her! And yet there was lacking that burning primordial desire to break down all barriers, brush aside all obstacles, crush anything that stood between him and this woman. Why? He saw clearly the immeasurable gulf. He knew that in these days men did not take their women under their arm and run away with them. He was like that lantern up there at the mast-head; and she was like one of those stars beyond.