"Thank you," he cried, and with a swift whirring of wings two grouse rose near by and shot like brown streaks over the silver tarn. "Sooner or later the mist always goes. . . ." He tapped out the ashes of his pipe, and put it back in his pocket. And as he straightened himself up, of a sudden it seemed to the man that the mountains and the moors, the tarn and the bogland approved of the change in him, and, finding him worthy, told him their message. "The Sun will always triumph," they cried in a mighty chorus. "Sooner or later the mist will always go." For a space the man stood there, while the sun, sinking lower and lower, bathed the world in glory. Then, he whistled. . . . "Your last walk on the moors, Binks, old man, so come on. To-morrow we go back." And with a terrier scurrying madly through the heather around him, the man strode forward.