Three or four times he leaned over the paper to write, but the noise of the storm again and again drew his look to the window.
The tempest ceased almost as suddenly as it had come, and, as the first sunlight broke through the flying clouds, he mechanically lifted a sheet of the paper and held it up to the light.

It brought to his eyes the large water-mark, Kathleen! A sombre look passed over his face, he shifted in his chair, then bent over the paper and began to write.

Words flowed from his pen.

The lines of his face relaxed, his eyes lightened; he was lost in a dream.

He thought of the present, and he wrote: "Wave walls to seaward, Storm-clouds to leeward, Beaten and blown by the winds of the West; Sail we encumbered Past isles unnumbered, But never to greet the green island of Rest." He thought of Father Loisel.