Suddenly, from the mysteries of sombre trees hard by, stole the plaintive notes of a blackbird singing, as it were, in poignant, sweet farewell:
'This day, with its joys and sorrows, its pain and travail, its possibilities for works good or evil, is passed away. O ye that grieve for chances lost or wasted, that sorrow for wrongs done or good undone, be comforted. Sleep ye in the sure hope that God of His mercy shall renew your hope for better things with to-morrow's dawn. So comfort ye!'
As I stood, the better to hear, my mind busied with some such thought as this conjured up of the bird's evening hymn, Diana's hand met mine in sudden, warm clasp.
"O Peregrine," she murmured, "so you love the silent places too?"
"Yes!" said I. "Yes! It is in such places that angels walk."
"Angels, Peregrine?"
"Great and noble thoughts, Diana. These are truly God's angels, I think, since they are the inspiration to all great and good works."
"It is in the silent places I am happiest, Peregrine."
"Because you have a soul, thank God!"
"What do you mean by a 'soul,' Peregrine?"