THE sound of falling water caught on Peregrine’s ear as he came to the foot of the small ravine. It was but a faint musical tinkle, since rain had been scarce during the past weeks. His way led him up a narrow pathway, somewhat rough, and steep-rocked on either side. The rocks were covered with stonecrop, a mass of white and yellow flowers earlier in the year; now merely small succulent leaves remained. Here and there grew patches of heather, its flowers likewise gone; only an occasional purple spray lingered among the withered brownness. The sun beat warmly on the path, falling very straight between the rocks.

Before him the way turned right and left, divided by a grass-covered slope. The sound of the falling water brought him to the left. Here the rocks held stunted trees, ash and elder, drawing small sustenance from the sparse earth. Further on the trees thickened, vegetation became more luxurious: now the sound of the water came very clearly to his ear. A moment later a slight bend in the path brought him upon it, a thin silver stream coming from the rocks above, and falling into a cup-shaped hollow.

By the hollow a boy was sitting. Peregrine judged him ten years old or thereabouts. His brown hair was cut straight across his forehead, and at the nape of his neck. He sat very still, his hands clasped round his knees. From afar you might have fancied him sleeping, but for a certain tenseness in his attitude. Coming nearer, you would have seen his eyes open, staring straight before him.

The sound of Peregrine’s step on the rocky earth brought him back to matters present. He raised his head quickly, the movement like that of a startled fawn.

Peregrine, coming near the boy, paused. “May I rest awhile?” he asked.

“Indeed, sir,” said the boy shyly, “this is no private place.”

“Yet courtesy prompts the query,” smiled Peregrine, “since I see you first established here.”

For answer Aelred moved a wooden crutch. Peregrine sat down by him.

“A very peaceful place,” said he, scarce knowing how best to broach the matter he had in mind.

“I like the sound of the falling water,” said the boy.

“’Tis musical enough,” said Peregrine somewhat absently.

Aelred eyed him frankly. Then with a child’s directness put a frank question.

“Are you very weary?”

Peregrine turned. “To speak truth, not weary at all at the moment, though methinks I have known weariness more often than not.”

“Yet you are strong,” said Aelred wistfully, glancing from the man to his own twisted foot.

“Weariness of body were better to suffer than mind weariness,” said Peregrine a trifle bitterly.

Aelred was silent. Here was matter beyond his ken.

“Yet you do not see me weary now,” said Peregrine quickly, noting his sorry look.

There fell a silence. He saw not how to lure the boy to speech, fearful lest question should shut his lips beyond chance of opening them. He felt in the child’s mind something alert, watchful, ready to hide on the smallest hint of intrusion. He saw not in what fashion he might best make gentle approach. Thus it was he sat silent, listening to the falling water.

Had he known, he could have used no better method of allurement than this very silence. The boy saw himself in a manner a host. He had averred, and truly, this was no private ground, nevertheless it was ground but rarely visited save by him. This gave him in a sense possession of it. It had become his by some inscrutable law of communion with its spirit. An’ you are alive to the great elemental forces of Nature, you will find a waiting spirit in all isolated places, ready to welcome or repel according to the kindredship of your soul. Welcomed, you are made lord of the domain by tacit consent. You return again and yet again till it becomes more fully yours by sovereign right. The presence of an intruder is made known to you rather by the resentfulness of the spirit of the place than by any volition of your own.

Aelred found the man beside him no intruder: he knew him for a welcomed guest. Therefore it behooved him to show hospitality. To this end, he broke presently into shy yet courteous speech.

“A thrush nested in yon thorn-bush in the spring. I saw her teach three little ones to fly.”

Here came opportunity. They were off in a moment among bird and beast, capping each other with greater marvel as to the ways of the woodland creatures. Aelred found his master in these matters. Ere long he became sole listener, drinking in the man’s words with eager ears. Peregrine told him of his own boyish rescuing of the hare from the huntsmen and harriers. Further, of finding, once on a time, a sorely wounded fox cub, of the vixen’s moan over it; told of carrying it back to her lair the while she trotted beside him, dog-like in her confidence; told of her jealous guard of it through the days of its mending; and, at the last how he had returned to find her and her young playing before the nest, the once injured cub among them; told how she had picked it from among the rest and laid it at his feet in gratitude, yelping softly with delight the while.

Here was comradeship of taste that brought them to quick understanding. There is none that draws together so quickly or so surely. Anon Peregrine ventured on the matter most present to his mind; spoke briefly of his seeking. He put no question; making his own desire known, he waited. Aelred, having seen a comrade in the man, was quick to give a comrade’s aid. His face a-quiver he spoke eagerly.

“Ah, but I have seen her. I know not who she is nor whence she comes. Most often she kneels by me in the church down yonder when I am alone. ’Twas there I first saw her. Once she met me on the hillside. I mind the day well. I was angered since one had spoken ill words to me. Up on the hill I saw the sun setting, and I—I knew it should not go down on anger. So presently I was sorry. Then I saw her coming towards me. It seemed that she came right from the sunset, though ’twas not that truly, but merely that the light was behind her. She looked at me, and called me, “Little Aelred.” She touched my forehead, and so left me. I know not whither she went, as I know not whence she comes. But I mind that day very well.”

You see him alight, eager, exceeding desirous of making his knowledge of the woman known.

“Then is she no fancy of the brain,” said Peregrine softly.

“Indeed no,” laughed the boy joyously. “Perchance even now she is down yonder. Truly I have seen her there full oft.”

Here was very definite assurance. The whole simplicity of it held him silent. For months he had wandered heart sick in pursuit. Now he found himself almost in her presence, and at the moment when, for all his vaunted words to Abbot Hilary, he had found himself nigh on abandoning the quest, turning for satisfaction to Nature and her varying moods. He saw himself a coward for his doubt: knew more certainly his great desire to come to her presence. I do not think he dwelt vastly now, no more than formerly, on what the meeting should bring him. It was enough to know she was no dream. An’ he could come to full assurance on this score, ’twere joy enough. The boy brought to words what trembled in his mind.

“An’ we went now to the church, we might find her there.”

Peregrine got to his feet; lifted the boy from the ground, adjusted the crutch beneath his arm.

“Come,” he said briefly.

They set out adown the rocky path. Peregrine found it none too easy work to curb his steps to the boy’s halting pace. His heart made haste before him, went eager to the desired meeting. He doubted not for one instant he should find her there. Long sought, long desired, he would see her face to face.

The village appeared deserted; the inhabitants within doors were partaking of the noonday meal. The sun lay golden on the roadway. Anon, before him, he saw the grey church, the porch shadowed by a great yew tree. Aelred’s crutch tapped softly up the flagged path. Together they entered the door.

The place was cool and dusky, smelling faintly of incense and candle fumes. A great Crucifix hung above the Rood Loft, dimly discernible in the shadows overhead. The Pyx Light shone soft and red.

They looked round: saw the building empty. Disappointment fell cold to Peregrine’s heart. Aelred lifted a reassuring face.

“Anon she may come,” he whispered. “Shall we wait and pray.”

“Pray you an’ you will,” said Peregrine somewhat coldly, “I will bide here.”

He stood within the doorway, arms folded. He had no mind to bend the knee. Ancient memories were hotly astir within him. Age-old custom, or something stronger, called loudly to him: pride mocked at the call.

Aelred limped up the aisle; made for a bench on his right. Here he came to his knees, while Peregrine watched motionless. An’ she passed not him to enter, she must needs come by a small door by the Lady Chapel. His eyes for the most part on this, though now and again turning to the kneeling boy, he waited. The minutes passed leaden-footed. At length Aelred got up from his knees.

Very sick at heart, Peregrine came through the porch, and into the sunlight. There he awaited the boy. Aelred came towards him, his face radiant.

“You saw her!” he cried.

Peregrine stared. “I saw her!” he echoed dumbfounded.

“She came even as I knelt,” he said joyous. Then stopped, struck mute by the sight of the man’s face.

“Ah, what is it?” he asked on a note almost piteous.

“Bah!” laughed Peregrine mockingly. “I might have known it but a figment of the brain. Yet that a child should be deceived!”

“What mean you?” asked Aelred trembling.

“There was no one near you.” He shot forth the words bitterly. Then turning strode away.

White-faced the boy looked after him.