n which we sat, and presently became aware
that on the little space of grass between us and the cliff must once
have stood a cottage and a cottage garden. There was a broken wall
behind us, and the little platform still held some garden flowers
sprawling wildly, a stunted fruitbush or two, a knotted apple-tree.

My own flower, or the bushes on which it grew, had once, I think,
formed part of the cottage hedge; but it had found a wider place to its
liking, for it ran riot everywhere; it scaled the cliff, where, too,
the golden wall-flowers of the garden had gained a footing; it fringed
the sand-patches beyond us, it rooted itself firmly in the shingle.
The plant had rough light-brown branches, which were now all starred
with the greenest tufts imaginable; but the flower itself! On many of
the bushes it was not yet fully out, and showed only in an abundance of
small lilac balls, carefully folded; but just below me a cluster had
found the sun and the air too sweet to resist, and had opened to the
light. The flower was of a delicate veined purple, a five-pointed
star, with a soft golden heart. All the open blossoms stared at me
with a tranquil gaze, knowing I would not hurt them.

Below, two fishermen rowed a boat quietly out to sea, the sharp
creaking of the rowlocks coming lazily to our ears in the pauses of the
wind. The little waves fell with a soft thud, followed by the crisp
echo of the surf, feeling all round the shingly cove. The whole place,
in that fresh spring day, was unutterably peaceful and content.

And I too forgot all my busy schemes and hopes and aims, the tiny part
I play in the world, with so much petty energy, such anxious
responsibility. My purple-starred flower approved of my acquiescence,
smiling trustfully upon me. "Here," it seemed to say, "I bloom and
brighten, spring after spring. No one regards me, no one cares for me;
no one praises my beauty; no one sorrows when these leaves grow pale,
when I fall from my stem, when my dry stalks whisper together in the
winter wind. But to you, because you have seen and loved me, I whisper
my secret." And then the flower told me something that I cannot write
even if I would, because it is in the language unspeakable, of which St
Paul wrote that such words are not lawful for a man to utter; but they
are heard in the third heaven of God.

Then I felt that if I could but remember what the flower said I should
never grieve or strive or be sorrowful a