As he lay under a beech-tree, watching the birds fluttering among the smooth branches, a little old man came wandering through and sat beside him. The hair of the little old man curled on his shoulders, like a child's--though it was grey instead of golden--and his eyes were also like a child's, bright and questioning. He was primly dressed in a flowered waistcoat buff breeches and blue stockings, but the garments were faded and threadbare. On his knee he held a basket of roots and leaves. "Meditation," he said, "is the mother of great thoughts, and repose fosters them till they be well-grown." "That's comforting to my lazy soul," drawled Peter. The thin old voice continued, carefully choosing the words as though, even in meditation, nothing slipshod or ill-fitting was allowed to pass. "We should find time to be idle," he said. "When the soul is possessed by tranquillity, there enters in an angel called thought--a mysterious being, whose birth and origin is far beyond our knowledge or understanding. But we can give her housing, care for her like kind folk, and she will reward us abundantly. Her presence with us is her reward." Peter chewed a blade of grass, basking in the warm light. For a little while neither spoke. The last week had shaken off all the appearance of winter from the forest. The trees were budding, a tall poplar rose purple as a plum, yonder a group of larches were turning green, and a sycamore had all its tips dipped in crimson. The blackthorn thicket was white, and the lesser celandines were golden on the banks. In the forest lay a deep blue silence--the silence of old wise trees, but on the topmost branches, gay and giddy birds were pouring out their hearts to the spring sunshine in a wild burst of melody. "It's all very beautiful," said Peter; "that light on the beech-stems--it might be a splash of pure gold. The trees seem to be aware of it too--if only their leaves were out they would be clapping their hands for joy." Then he turned to Timothy Hadwin. "I'm becoming a convert to your Faith," he said. "I believe the earth has a soul and every living thing." "You feel it, then?" replied the old man, eagerly. "You feel a magic in the woods which only comes from the communion of souls? You and I and the trees are not alone here. You feel that other minds are reaching out to touch you, as you are reaching out to touch them? You have in your own mind this vision of the truth--the kinship of the living world?" "Perhaps it's imagination after all," said Peter. "Imagination does not lie." "It may deceive."