d industriously with its long legs. It seemed to wish to sit with
Hugh; and again and again, after a short flight, it returned to the
same place. What was the meaning of this tiny, definite life, with its
short space of sun and shade, made with so curious and elaborate an
art, so whimsically adorned and glorified? Here again he was touched
close by the impenetrable mystery of things. But presently the
cheerful and complacent creature flew off on some secret errand, and
Hugh was left alone again.

He descended swiftly into the valley; the road was full of dust. The
vehicles, full of chattering, smoking, vacuous persons were speeding
home. The hands of many were full of poor fading flowers, torn from
lawn and ledge to please a momentary whim. Yet beside the road slid
the clear stream over its shingle, passing from brisk cascades into
dark and silent pools, fringed with rich water-plants, the trees bowing
over the water. How swiftly one passed from disgust and ugliness into
unimagined peace! It was all going forwards, all changing, all tending
to some unknown goal.

Hugh found his host sitting on the terrace, under a leafy sycamore, a
perfect picture of holy age and serenity. He listened to the recital
of Hugh's little adventures with a smile, and said that he had often
walked over the fell in the old days, but did not suppose he would ever
see it again. "I am just waiting for my release," he said, with a
little nod of his head; "every time that I sit here, I think it may
very likely be the last." Hugh longed to ask him the secret of this
contented and passionless peace, but he knew there could be no answer;
it was the kindly gift of God.

The sunset died away among the blue hill-ranges, and a soft breeze
began to stir among the leaves of the sycamore overhead. A nightjar
sent out its liquid, reiterated note from the heather, and a star
climbed above the edge of the dark hill. Here was peace enough, if he
could but reach it and seize it. Yet it softly eluded his grasp, and
seemed only to mock him as unattainable. Should he ever grasp it?
There was no answer possible; yet a message seemed to come wistfully
and timidly, flying like a night-bird out of the wild woodland, as
though it would have settled near him; but it left him with the same
inextinguishable hunger of the heart, that seemed to be increased
rather than fed by the fragrant incense of the garden, the sight of the
cool, glimmering paths, the pa