EARLY the next morning Peregrine was again afoot. Coming at length from among the trees, he found himself on a hillside. Below him was a hamlet, a small cluster of some dozen or so cottages nestling at the foot of the hill. Later, an’ he would, he might seek food at one of them; at the moment he had bread sufficient to stay hunger, and had little mind to find himself again in the company of men.

Partly descending the hill, he sat down beneath a thorn-bush, looking on the landscape spread below him. Sounds of life came to him on the quiet air; here was the clarion note of a cock, the bark of a dog, the lowing of cows, and the tinkle of a bell at the neck of some goat.

The time passed pleasantly enough beneath the thorn-bush. He found himself in no mood to desert his post. Dreamily he watched the shifting lights and shadows in the valley, and on the hills beyond.

The sound of footsteps brought him again to the present. He looked up. Almost opposite to him were a boy and girl, the boy ten years old or thereabouts, the girl some three years younger. Her brown hair was covered with a purple hood; a dress of the same colour fell to her ankles; a white kerchief was folded about her neck; her arms were full of bluebells. The boy, a sturdy fellow, clad in green tunic and hose, and having a brown cap on his head, held a great sheaf of cherry blossom. Peregrine straightway thought of Pippo.

Coming to a halt they gazed at him, round-eyed, astonished at the sight of a stranger.

“Good-day,” quoth Peregrine smiling at their astonishment.

“Good-day,” echoed the boy. The girl remained mute; a very shy maiden.

“You are well laden,” said Peregrine.

The boy glanced at his burden. “We take them to the church yonder.” He nodded leftwards up the hill.

Peregrine half turned; saw what had before escaped his notice, a small grey church on the hillside, set on the edge of the forest.

“You carry a fair tribute thither,” quoth he.

“’Tis Easter Eve,” said the boy bluntly.

“Oh!” breathed Peregrine. The syllable showing him ignorant of the fact, the children eyed him puzzled. How should the passing of the Solemn Week have escaped him unobserved? This is what their glances asked, though they found no words.

“She takes bluebells,” said the boy, nodding towards the girl. “She says Christ must surely love them, since they are the colour of His Mother’s robe. I climbed for my cherry blossom.”

Here Peregrine saw Pippo again. His mouth curved to smile, though memory brought a lurking sadness to his eyes.

Finding no further speech come handy, the boy turned to the girl.

“Come,” he said. “Father Felix bade us be betimes.”

Together they wended their way up the hillside. Peregrine looked after them, and towards the church.

The sun had fallen behind the forest, leaving it purple-blue against a rosy sky toning upwards to lilac and grey. The air was alive and fragrant with the breath of spring. A thrush sang in an elm tree set close against the church.

Father Felix was sitting on a bench in front of a cottage door. This was the priest’s house, and was hard by the church. Since you have met Father Felix before, though in other guise, I refrain from present description of him. His eyes, looking towards the reflection from the sunset, reflected something of its calm. You see him musing on matters well loved by him.

Anon bringing his eyes from the sky, a thought nearer earth, he became aware of a tall man standing near him. Looking at him, he saw in him a stranger.

“I give you good-evening, sir,” he said.

“Good-evening,” responded Peregrine.

“You are, I fancy, a stranger in these parts,” said Father Felix.

“I am,” returned Peregrine briefly.

Here conversation seemed like to come to a halt. A frank response with nothing added to it brings matters to a greater standstill than a shifty answer will bring them. The last case leaves room for probing; the first makes further query appear sheer curiosity.

Father Felix surveyed him with kindly blue eyes; Peregrine returned the glance with eyes no less blue.

“Have you come from far?” asked Father Felix, blinking towards the sunset reflection in the eastern sky. Yet, for all his blinking, methinks he saw a good deal.

“Recently from the forest,” said Peregrine. “I have been dwelling there some weeks past.”

The old man smiled. “Then you are a bit of a hermit like myself. Will you not be seated?” He moved slightly on the bench; at the same time indicated a tree stump near him, thereby giving a choice of seats. Peregrine chose the tree stump.

“And before the forest?” asked Father Felix. “That is if you will see interest rather than curiosity in my queries?”

“Before the forest I was a wanderer,” returned Peregrine. Then he pushed back the hood of his cloak, threw it somewhat from his shoulders. “You see in me an outcaste fool.” There was a faint ring of challenge in the words.

“Hmm,” mused Father Felix gently, his eyes twinkling. “A fool by whose standard? An outcaste from what company? Methinks there lies the test as to whether the title with which you have branded yourself may not be a badge of glory rather than of shame.”

Peregrine looked straight before him. “A fool by the standard of men, and by mine own. An outcaste from the Court where I played the fool.”

“Since you judge yourself a fool by your own standard, you are assuredly in the way of becoming something greater,” said Father Felix quietly. “For the standard of men, I pay not over much heed to that measure when applied to their fellow-mortals. As to the matter of outcaste,” he looked at him very straightly, “an’ you be not outcaste from God, I see in the business less of a boggle than you perchance see.”

“An’ I were an outcaste from Him?” queried Peregrine very low.

“Then, my son, the quicker you set about returning to Him the better,” quoth Father Felix briskly.

A silence fell on these words. If Peregrine had answer to make it was at the moment no verbal one. The old man having said his say let the matter bide. The light in the sky faded, cooled to a pale blue-grey very restful to contemplate. A star came out over the forest. Big and luminous it hung in the clear space.

Anon Peregrine roused himself.

“I bid you good-evening,” he said.

The old man looked at him, seemed about to speak, checked the words on his lips, gave “Good-evening” in response. Peregrine went down the hill.

Coming again to the thorn-bush, he halted irresolute, made half turn to retrace his steps. He denied the impulse; sat down once more beneath the thorn-bush.

Night crept slowly onward, spreading her dusky mantle over the valley. At the foot of the hills it was intensely dark, yet with a soft darkness as of velvet. The night itself was softly velvet; grey velvet above the hills, star-sprinkled. Sirius faced him in a dip between them, blinking now fire-red, now green. No moon being visible, the stars shone with a greater radiance.

Around and about him was intense silence. The earth was caught to slumber. Himself wakeful, he sat immovable, motionless as the thorn-bush by which he rested. His spirit winged into the vast spaces, ranged in circles, returning ever to one point. Staying a moment there, it went forth again, sent by his own will, since he was reluctant to allow it permission to this resting-place.

At length his spirit grew weary of the flight. “I have sought,” she said to him, “and here is my sole haven. Let me rest now.” Here, clearly, were the words she spoke. How send her forth again upon a barren errand? How bid her seek fruitlessly afar that which lay so near to hand? His will withdrew from the guarded sanctuary. Wings folded, his spirit came to harbourage.

The night wore on. A pale light in the east heralded the coming dawn. He rose from beneath the thorn-bush, turned up the hill.

Within the church was nearly utter darkness; only the one red light glowed as it glows wherever Christ reigns hidden in the Sacred Host.

Father Felix rose from near the altar, came down the aisle to meet him. His eyes were heavy with foregone sleep, yet bright with an immense happiness.

“I was waiting for you,” he said.

An hour later Peregrine knelt before the flower-decked altar. Through the open door of the church the dawn showed purple beyond the hills. The sun, coming up above them, shot golden beams into the place, falling upon the Crucifix set among bluebells and snow-white cherry blossom.

Peregrine raised his head. Kneeling near him he saw the Woman he had sought, looked straight into her deep eyes.... For all his joy in her presence it was submerged in the knowledge of One Who had brought him to sight of her.

Father Felix, turning from the door of the sacristy, looked momentarily at the kneeling man. Beyond him, he saw the sun risen above the blue hills.