the
touch of the drooping blossoms was like fire to his fingers. Had he been
like those predecessors of his in the days of the Puritans, he would
have cast them away, trampled them underfoot; he would have seen in them
only the snare of the Evil One. But to Macheson this would have seemed
almost like sacrilege. They were beautiful and he loved beautiful
things.

He made his way farther into the plantation, to where the trees,
suddenly opening, disclosed a small, disused slate quarry, the water in
which was kept fresh by many streams. Stripping off his clothes, he
plunged into the deep cool depths, swimming round for several minutes on
his back, his face upturned to the dim blue sky. Then he dressed--in the
ugly black suit, for it was Sunday, and made a frugal breakfast, boiling
the water for his coffee over a small spirit-lamp. And all the time he
kept looking at the roses, now fresh with the water which he had
carefully sprinkled over them. Their coming seemed to him to whisper of
beautiful things, they turned his thoughts so easily into that world of
poetry and sentiment in which he was a habitual wanderer. Yet, every now
and then, their direct significance startled, almost alarmed. Some one
had actually been in the place while he slept, and had retreated without
disturbing him. Roses do not drop from the sky, and of gardens there
were none close at hand. Was it one of the village girls, who had seen
him that afternoon? His cheeks reddened at the thought. Perhaps he had
better leave his shelter. Another time if she came she might not steal
away so quietly. Scandal would injure his work. He must run no risks.
Deep down in his heart he thrust that other, that impossibly sweet
thought. He would not suffer his mind to dwell upon it.

After breakfast he walked for an hour or so across the hills, watching
the early mists roll away in the valleys, and the sunlight settle down
upon the land. It was a morning of silence, this--that peculiar,
mysterious silence which only the first day of the week seems to bring.
The fields were empty of toilers, the harvest was stayed. From its
far-away nest amongst the hills, he could just hear, carried on the
bosom of a favouring breeze, the single note of a monastery bell, whose
harshness not even distance, or its pleasant journey across the open
country, could modify. Macheson listened to it for a moment, and sat
down upon a rock on the topmost pinnacle of the hills he was climbing.

Be