. He halted in alarm. Who might this
be, friend or foe? But eager agitation pushed him on. Burning to know,
he hurried up to the brow of the hill.

The smoke mounted from a small bonfire of sticks in a sheltered thicket,
where a miraculous being--who was, as a matter of fact, a rather ragged
and dingy vagabond--was cooking a tin of stew over the blaze.

Gissing stood, quivering with emotion. Joy such as he had never known
darted through all the cords of his body. He ran, shouting, in mirth and
terror. In fear, in a passion of love and knowledge and understanding,
he abased himself and yearned before this marvel. Impossible to have
conceived, yet, once seen, utterly satisfying and the fulfilment of all
needs. He laughed and leaped and worshipped. When the first transport
was over, he laid his head against this being's knee, he nestled there
and was content. This was the inscrutable perfect answer.

"Cripes!" said the puzzled tramp, as he caressed the nuzzling head. "The
purp's loco. Maybe he's been lost. You might think he'd never seen a man
before."

He was right.

And Gissing sat quietly, his throat resting upon the soiled knee of a
very old and spicy trouser.

"I have found God," he said.

Presently he thought of the ship. It would not do to leave her so
insecurely moored. Reluctantly, with many a backward glance and a heart
full of glory, he left the Presence. He ran to the edge of the hill to
look down upon the harbour.

The outlook was puzzlingly altered. He gazed in astonishment. What were
those poplars, rising naked into the bright air?--there was something
familiar about them. And that little house beyond... he stared
bewildered.

The great shining breadth of the ocean had shrunk to the roundness of
a tiny pond. And the Pomerania? He leaned over, shaken with questions.
There, beside the bank, was a little plank of wood, a child's plaything,
roughly fashioned shipshape: two chips for funnels; red and yellow
frosted leaves for flags; a withered dogwood blossom for propeller. He
leaned closer, with whirling mind. In the clear cool surface of the
pond he could see the sky mirrored, deeper than any ocean, pellucid,
infinite, blue.

He ran up the path to the house. The scuffled ragged garden lay naked
and hard. At the windows, he saw with surprise, were holly wreaths tied
with broad red ribbon. On the porch, some battered toys. He opened the
door.

A fluttering rosy light filled the room. By the firepla