That evening David sat long on his rock holding his flute and watching the thin golden crescent of the new moon floating through a pale amber sky, and one star near its tip slowly sliding down with it toward the deepening horizon.
The glowing sky bending to the purple hilltops—the crescent moon and the lone shining star—the evening breeze singing in the pines above him—the delicate arbutus blossoms hiding near his feet—the call of a bird to its mate, and the faint answering call from some distant shade—the call in his own heart that as yet returned to him unanswered, but with its quiet surety of ultimate response—the joy of these moments perfect in beauty and a more abundant assurance of gladness near at hand—filled him and lifted his soul to follow the star.
Guided by the unseen hand that held the earth, the crescent moon and the star to their orbits, would he find the great happiness that should be not his alone, but also for the eyes uplifted to the mountain top and the heart waiting in the shadows for the one to be sent? Ah, surely, surely, for this had he come. He stooped to the arbutus blossoms to inhale their fragrance. He rose and, lifting his flute to his lips, played to solace his own waiting, inventing new caprices and tossing forth the notes daringly—delicately—rapturously—now penetrating and strong, now faintly following and scarcely heard, uttering a wordless gladness.