ood was like a harp; a breeze touched the strings,
and every now and then the murmur seemed about to break into a little
tune, and as if in emulation, or because he remembered his part in the
music, a blackbird, perched near to his mate, whose nest was in the
hawthorns growing out of the tumbled wall, began to sing a joyful lay in
a rich round contralto, soft and deep as velvet. 'All nature,' he said,
'is talking or singing. This is talking and singing time. But my heart
can speak to no one, and I seek places where no one will come.' And he
began to ask if God would answer his prayer if he prayed that he might
die.

The sunlit grass, already long and almost ready for the scythe, was
swept by shadows of the larches, those long, shelving boughs hung with
green tassels, moving mysteriously above him. Birds came and went, each
on its special errand. Never was Nature more inveigling, more restful.
He shut his eyes, shapes passed, dreams filled the interspaces. Little
thoughts began. Why had he never brought her here? A memory of her
walking under these larches would be delightful. The murmur of the
boughs dissipated his dreams or changed them, or brought new ones; his
consciousness grew fainter, and he could not remember what his last
thoughts were when he opened his eyes.

And then he wandered out of the wood, into the sunlit country, along the
dusty road, trying to take an interest in everyone whom he met. It was
fairday. He met drovers and chatted to them about the cattle; he heard a
wonderful story about a heifer that one of them had sold, and that found
her way back home again, twenty-five miles, and a little further on a
man came across the fields towards him with a sheep-dog at his heels, a
beautiful bitch who showed her teeth prettily when she was spoken to;
she had long gold hair, and it was easy to see that she liked to be
admired.

'They're all alike, the feminine sex,' the priest thought. 'She's as
pretty as Nora, and acts very much the same.'

He walked on again, stopping to speak with everybody, glad to listen to
every story. One was of a man who lived by poaching. He hadn't slept in
a bed for years, but lay down in the mountains and the woods. He
trapped rabbits and beat people; sometimes he enticed boys far away, and
then turned upon them savagely. Well, the police had caught him again,
and this time he wouldn't get off with less than five years. Listening
to Mike Mulroy's talk, Father Oliver forgot his o