"I think so," he said, very decidedly.
The girl laughed.
"I hope so. But—" She held out her hand. "Thank you, Father," she said. "I'll never be able to think of the things I'm set on achieving without remembering our talk—and the man I met in the forest. I wish—but what's the use? I've got to make good. I must. I must go on, and—do the thing I see. Good-bye."
Father Adam was holding the small gauntleted hand, and he seemed loth to release it. His eyes were very gentle, very earnest.
"Don't worry to remember, child. Don't ever think about—this time. It won't help you. You've set your goal. Make it. You will do the good things you fancy to do, though maybe not the way you think them. It seems to me that 'good' mostly has its own way all the time. You can't drive it. And the best of it is I don't think there's a human creature so bad in this world, but that in some way God's work has been furthered through his life. Good-bye."
* * * * *
For some moments the lonely figure stood gazing down the woodland aisles. The deep, shining light of a great hope was in his eyes. A wonderful tender smile had dispersed the shadows of his ascetic face. At length, as the girl's figure became completely swallowed up in the twilight of it all, he turned away and passed into the foliage shelter which was his home.
He was squatting on his box, and the small canvas bag containing his belongings was open beside him. Its contents were strewn about. He was writing a long letter. There was several pages of it. When he had finished he read it over carefully. Then he carefully folded it and placed it in an envelope, and addressed it. It was addressed:
MR. BULL STERNFORD,
Sachigo, Farewell Cove,