, and none that went to the
depth of thought. The very quietude and fixity of their being perplexed
and estranged me. What to them was permanent, to me was transient. They
were inhabitants: I was a visitor.

The one in all the city of Saloma with whom was most at home was Ruamie,
the little granddaughter of the old man with whom I lodged. To her, a
girl of thirteen, fair-eyed and full of joy, the wonted round of life
had not yet grown to be a matter of course. She was quick to feel and
answer the newness of every day that dawned. When a strange bird flew
down from the mountains into the gardens, it was she that saw it and
wondered at it. It was she that walked with me most often in the path to
the Source. She went out with me to the fields in the morning and almost
every day found wild-flowers that were new to me. At sunset she drew me
to happy games of youths and children, where her fancy was never tired
of weaving new turns to the familiar pastimes. In the dusk she would sit
beside me in an arbour of honeysuckle and question me about the flower
that I was seeking,--for to her I had often spoken of my quest.

"Is it blue," she asked, "as blue as the speedwell that grows beside the
brook?"

"Yes, it is as much bluer than the speedwell, as the river is deeper
than the brook."

"And is it," she asked, "as bright as the drops of dew in the moonlight?"

"Yes, it is brighter than the drops of dew as the sun is clearer than
the moon."

"And is it sweet," she asked, "as sweet as the honeysuckle when the day
is warm and still?"

"Yes, it is as much sweeter than the honeysuckle as the night is stiller
and more sweet than the day."

"Tell me again," she asked, "when you saw it, and why do you seek it?"

"Once I saw it when I was a boy, no older than you. Our house looked out
toward the hills, far away and at sunset softly blue against the
eastern sky. It was the day that we laid my father to rest in the little
burying-ground among the cedar-trees. There was his father's grave, and
his father's father's grave, and there were the places for my mother and
for my two brothers and for my sister and for me. I counted them all,
when the others had gone back to the house. I paced up and down alone,
measuring the ground; there was room enough for us all; and in the
western corner where a young elm-tree was growing,--that would be my
place, for I was the youngest. How tall would the elm-tree be then?
I had never thought of it be