“Ah, but I have seen her. I know not who she is nor whence she comes. Most often she kneels by me in the church down yonder when I am alone. ’Twas there I first saw her. Once she met me on the hillside. I mind the day well. I was angered since one had spoken ill words to me. Up on the hill I saw the sun setting, and I—I knew it should not go down on anger. So presently I was sorry. Then I saw her coming towards me. It seemed that she came right from the sunset, though ’twas not that truly, but merely that the light was behind her. She looked at me, and called me, “Little Aelred.” She touched my forehead, and so left me. I know not whither she went, as I know not whence she comes. But I mind that day very well.” You see him alight, eager, exceeding desirous of making his knowledge of the woman known. “Then is she no fancy of the brain,” said Peregrine softly. “Indeed no,” laughed the boy joyously. “Perchance even now she is down yonder. Truly I have seen her there full oft.” Here was very definite assurance. The whole simplicity of it held him silent. For months he had wandered heart sick in pursuit. Now he found himself almost in her presence, and at the moment when, for all his vaunted words to Abbot Hilary, he had found himself nigh on abandoning the quest, turning for satisfaction to Nature and her varying moods. He saw himself a coward for his doubt: knew more certainly his great desire to come to her presence. I do not think he dwelt vastly now, no more than formerly, on what the meeting should bring him. It was enough to know she was no dream. An’ he could come to full assurance on this score, ’twere joy enough. The boy brought to words what trembled in his mind. “An’ we went now to the church, we might find her there.” Peregrine got to his feet; lifted the boy from the ground, adjusted the crutch beneath his arm. “Come,” he said briefly. They set out adown the rocky path. Peregrine found it none too easy work to curb his steps to the boy’s halting pace. His heart made haste before him, went eager to the desired meeting. He doubted not for one instant he should find her there. Long sought, long desired, he would see her face to face. The village appeared deserted; the inhabitants within doors were partaking of the noonday meal. The sun lay golden on the roadway. Anon, before him, he saw the grey church, the porch shadowed by a great yew tree. Aelred’s crutch tapped softly up the flagged path. Together they entered the door. The place was cool and dusky, smelling faintly of incense and candle fumes. A great Crucifix hung above the Rood Loft, dimly discernible in the shadows overhead. The Pyx Light shone soft and red. They looked round: saw the building empty. Disappointment fell cold to Peregrine’s heart. Aelred lifted a reassuring face. “Anon she may come,” he whispered. “Shall we wait and pray.” “Pray you an’ you will,” said Peregrine somewhat coldly, “I will bide here.”