The colourful years sped.

At fifteen Wilbur Cowan, suddenly alive to this quick way of time, was looking back to the days of his heedless youth.

That long aisle of years seemed unending, but it narrowed in perspective until earlier experiences were but queerly dissolving shapes, wavering of outline, dimly discerned, piquant or sad in the mind, but elusive when he would try to fix them.
On a shining, full-starred night he stood before the little house in the Penniman side yard and bade farewell to this youth.

A long time he gazed into the arched splendour above.

He had never noticed that the stars were so many and so bright; and they were always there, by day as well as by night, so his father said.