Mrs. Launce went into the cottage again and prepared herself for an announcement at tea-time. She wiped her eyes before she settled down to her work. Loving both of them the thought of their happiness hung about her all the afternoon and made her very tender and forgiving when the little parlourmaid arrived with a piece of the blue and white china smashed to atoms. “I can't think 'ow it 'appened, Mum. I was just standing....” Peter and Clare, crossing the common, beheld the sea at their feet. It was a hot misty afternoon and only the thin white line of tiny curling waves crept out of the haze on to the gleaming yellow sand. Behind them, on every side was common and the only habitation, a small cottage nearly hidden by a black belt of trees, on their right. These black, painted trees lay like a blot of ink against the blue sky. Sitting down on the edge of the common they looked on to the yellow sand. The air was remorselessly still as though the world were cased in iron; somewhere deep within its silence, its heart might yet be beating, but the depths hid its reverberation. Peter lay flat on his back and instantly his world was full of clamour. All about him insects were stirring, the thin stiff blades of grass were very faintly rustling, a tiny blue butterfly flew up from the soil into the bright air--some creature sang a little song that sounded like the faint melody of a spinet. “All praising the Lord, I suppose--” Peter listened. “Hymn and glory songs and all the rest--” Then, clashing, out of the heart of the sky, the thought followed. “There _must_ be a God”--the tinkling insect told him so. He gazed into the great sheet of blue above him, so remote, so cruel ... and yet the tiny blue butterfly flew, without fear, into its very heart. Peter's soul was drawn up. He swung, he flew, he fled.... Down below, there on the hard, brown soil his body lay--dust to the dust--there, dead amongst the singing insects.... He looked down, from his great heights and saw his body, with its red face and its suit of blue and its up-turned boots, and here, in freedom his Soul exulted! “Of course there is a God!” They are praising him down there--the ground is covered with creatures that are praising Him. Peter buried his eyes and instantly his soul came swinging down to him, found his body again, filled once more his veins with life and sound. After a vast silence he could hear, once more, the life amongst the grass, the faint rustle of the thin line of foam beneath him, and could smell the earth and the scent of the seaweed borne up to them from the sand. “It's so still,” he said suddenly, “that it's almost like thunder. There'll be a storm later. On a day like this in Cornwall you would hear the sound of the Mining Stamps for miles--” “Well,” she answered, “I am glad we're not in Cornwall--I hate it.” “Hate it!”