Before him the way turned right and left, divided by a grass-covered slope. The sound of the falling water brought him to the left. Here the rocks held stunted trees, ash and elder, drawing small sustenance from the sparse earth. Further on the trees thickened, vegetation became more luxurious: now the sound of the water came very clearly to his ear. A moment later a slight bend in the path brought him upon it, a thin silver stream coming from the rocks above, and falling into a cup-shaped hollow. By the hollow a boy was sitting. Peregrine judged him ten years old or thereabouts. His brown hair was cut straight across his forehead, and at the nape of his neck. He sat very still, his hands clasped round his knees. From afar you might have fancied him sleeping, but for a certain tenseness in his attitude. Coming nearer, you would have seen his eyes open, staring straight before him. The sound of Peregrine’s step on the rocky earth brought him back to matters present. He raised his head quickly, the movement like that of a startled fawn. Peregrine, coming near the boy, paused. “May I rest awhile?” he asked. “Indeed, sir,” said the boy shyly, “this is no private place.” “Yet courtesy prompts the query,” smiled Peregrine, “since I see you first established here.” For answer Aelred moved a wooden crutch. Peregrine sat down by him. “A very peaceful place,” said he, scarce knowing how best to broach the matter he had in mind. “I like the sound of the falling water,” said the boy. “’Tis musical enough,” said Peregrine somewhat absently. Aelred eyed him frankly. Then with a child’s directness put a frank question. “Are you very weary?” Peregrine turned. “To speak truth, not weary at all at the moment, though methinks I have known weariness more often than not.” “Yet you are strong,” said Aelred wistfully, glancing from the man to his own twisted foot. “Weariness of body were better to suffer than mind weariness,” said Peregrine a trifle bitterly. Aelred was silent. Here was matter beyond his ken. “Yet you do not see me weary now,” said Peregrine quickly, noting his sorry look. There fell a silence. He saw not how to lure the boy to speech, fearful lest question should shut his lips beyond chance of opening them. He felt in the child’s mind something alert, watchful, ready to hide on the smallest hint of intrusion. He saw not in what fashion he might best make gentle approach. Thus it was he sat silent, listening to the falling water.