He had been shy of man and was shy no longer; he had been in love, was in love now, but had surrendered it; he had been afraid of physical pain and was afraid no longer; he had looked his enemy in the eyes and borne him no ill-will. But he was conscious of none of these things--only of the freshness of the morning, of the scents that came to him from every side, and of this strange disembodied state so that he seemed to float, like gossamer, on air. He went down the path to the little cove. He watched the ripple of water advance and retreat. The stream of fresh water that ran through it was crystal clear and he bent down, made a cup with his hands and drank. He could see the pebbles, brown and red and green like jewels, and thin spires of green weed swaying to and fro. He buried his face in the water, letting it wash his eyes, his forehead, his nostrils, his mouth. He stood up and drank in the silence. The ripple of the sea was like the touch on his arm of a friend. He kneeled down and let the fine sand run, hot, through his fingers. Then he moved on. He climbed the hill: a flock of sheep passed him, huddling together, crying, nosing the hedge. The sun touched the outline of their fleece to shining light. He cried out to the shepherd: "A fine morning!" "Aye, a beautiful morning!" "A nasty fog last night." "Aye, aye--all cleared off now though. It'll be a warm day." The dog, his tongue out, his eyes shining, ran barking hither, thither. They passed over the hill, the sheep like a cloud against the green. He pushed up, the breeze blowing more strongly now on his forehead. He reached the cottage gardens, and the smell of roses was once more thick in his nostrils. The chimneys were sending silver skeins of smoke into the blue air. Bacon smells and scent of fresh bread came to him. He was at the hotel gates. Oh, but he was weary now! Weary and happy. He stumbled up the path smelling the roses again. Into the hall. The gong was ringing for breakfast. Children, crying out and laughing, raced down the stairs, passed him. He reached his room. He opened the door. How quiet it was! Just as he had left it. Ah! there was the tree of the "St. Gilles," and there the grave friendly eyes of Strang leaning over the etching-table to greet him. Just as they were--but he!--not as he had been! He caught his face in the glass smiling idiotically. He staggered to his bed, flung himself down still smiling. His eyes closed. There floated up to him a face--a little white face crowned with red hair, but not evil now, not animal--friendly, lonely, asking for something. . . . He smiled, promising something. Lifted his hand. Then his hand fell, and he sank deep, deep, deep into happy, blissful slumber. THE END.