The words tore through him in such curious, impersonal fashion, that he hardly realised he was giving utterance to a longing that had once been his own, and that he was now seeking to realise vicariously in the person of this little poet-girl beside him. He stroked her hair as she nestled up to him, breathing hard, her eyes glistening like stars, speechless with the torrent of wonder with which her big uncle had enveloped her. ‘Some day,’ she murmured presently, ‘some day, remember. You promise?’ ‘I promise.’ ‘And—and will you write that all out for me, please?’ ‘All what?’ ‘About the too-big woods and the too-old language and the winds that fly without stopping, and the stories——’ ‘Oh, oh!’ he laughed; ‘that’s another matter!’ ‘Yes, oh you must, Uncle! Make a story of it—an aventure. Write it out as a verywonerfulindeedaventure, and put you and me in it!’ She forgot the touch of sadness and clapped her hands with delight. ‘And then read it out at a Meeting, don’t you see?’ And in the end Paul promised that too, making a great fuss about it, but in his heart secretly pleased and happy. ‘I’ll try,’ he said, with portentous gravity. The child stared up at him with the sure knowledge in her eyes that between them they held the key to all that was really worth knowing. He stooped to kiss her hair, but before he could do so, with a laugh and a dancing step he scarcely heard, she was gone from his side and half-way down the passage, so that he kissed the empty air. ‘Bless her mighty little heart!’ he exclaimed, straightening himself up again. ‘Was there ever such a teacher in the world before?’ He became aware that the world held powers, gentle yet immense, that were urging him in directions hitherto undreamed of. With such a fairy guide he might find—he was already finding—not merely safety-valves of expression, but an outlet into the bargain for his creative imagination. ‘And a little child shall lead them,’ he murmured in his beard, as he went slowly down the passage to his room to dress for dinner. Again he felt like singing. CHAPTER XVIII The tree which moves some to tears of joy is in the eyes of others only a green thing standing in the way.—W.B. Thus, gradually, the grey house under the hills changed into a palace; the garden stretched to include the stars; and Paul, the retired Wood Cruiser, walked in a world all new and brilliant. For to find the means of self-expression is to build the foundations of spiritual health, and an ideal companionship, unvexed by limitations of sense, holds potentialities that can change earth into heaven. His accumulated stores of imagination found wings, and he wrote a series of Aventures that delighted his audience while they healed his own soul. ‘I wish they’d go on for ever and ever,’ observed Toby solemnly to her brother. ‘Perhaps they do really, only——’