"I've brought you a sort of present," he said, putting the parcel on a chair before Garth, "and I do hope you'll like it. It's not quite dry in some places," he added, peering inside the paper, "but it seems to be all right."
He pulled the wrappings away suddenly, and there stood revealed a picture, a rather large painting, Out through the dull green frame loomed a great full-rigged ship, coming head on out of the mist. Away from her lofty bow the clear emerald water curled, dashing spray against her carven figure-head. Every detail of her beautiful form was painted with exquisite care; not the least thing was lacking. Yet about her clung a strange atmosphere of unreality, as though she were almost a phantom ship. Her skysails were lost in the mist; her cloudy canvas merged into the gray behind her. Her utter silence was not altogether the silence of a pictured thing. She towered along like a ship in a dream, clothed in a mystic vesture of enchantment.
"She is your ship," said Sinclair gently. "You are her master, and she heeds no other hand at the helm but yours."
"Ship of Dreams," murmured Jim. "Per aspera ad astra."
