‘Shepherdin’, sir? ’Tis allers slow goin’, but goin’ all th’ time. We did famous with th’ wool, an’—’
‘George, leave the wool alone. You know what I mean.’
George Artlett swung round on his heel, and swung back again. He counted the fingers on his gnarled hand slowly one by one.
‘Be ut priest to lost runagate, or be ut man to man?’ he asked, looking up suddenly.
‘It is just one child in the dark way putting forth hand to another. For, to the best of us, George, comradeship can be no more than a heartening touch and sound of a footstep going a common road, and the voice of a friend. Do you see a light at the end of your path?’
‘Ay! I do that!’
‘Look closer. Is not the light just the shine of a Beautiful Face, very grave and sorrowful, but with a great joy beginning to spread over it, and—’
Though the deep voice stemmed on in the sunny quiet of the combe, I could distinguish the words no longer; for something, that was by no means part of me but of a more delicate nurture, had set my feet going against my will. I was halfway down the long alley of the combe before I stopped to wait for the old vicar. And then, looking backward, I fell to staring with all my eyes.
‘Reverend,’ said I, after he had rejoined me, and we had walked on together in silence for a minute or two, ‘I wish you could see what is before me now.’
I had brought him out of his reverie with a jerk. ‘Well: on with it!’