Peregrine looked at him. He was not displeased with his bluntness. He saw in him one who came to a grip with matters. Mayhap, he lost hold on a part of what he gripped at, since a man’s grasp is not over-large; nevertheless he saw him making sure of what he grasped. “You shall have the story plainly,” said Peregrine. And forthwith gave it to him. On the conclusion Oswald made no answer, but remained half-musing. When at last he spoke it was as though he conferred with himself. “I too have had glimpse of the woman you seek. I, too, sought her, moved Heaven and Earth and Hell to that end, and came no nearer finding her. Now frankly, I know not whether she is mortal or spirit. This much I know truly: she is no fancy as you have said. Spirit she may be, and probably is, though I still give the benefit of the doubt to her mortal nature,—if the doubt be benefit. Of that I am none too sure. This further conclusion I have come to also; she is not to be found for all our seeking. An’ she come again willingly,—mortal or spirit,—as she came once in glimpse, ’twill be her affair, not ours. For my part, I dwell in my memory of her. That she is existent suffices me. I seek no further knowledge of her save at her own will.” He stopped. Then a moment later he continued. “I see her eyes in the moonlit pools of the forest; her purple veil in the spreading of the twilight; her presence in the quiet of the night. This much my momentary sight of her has given me, and for the gift I am thankful.” “Then you hold the sight no illusion?” asked Peregrine. “None,” said Oswald calmly. “I will put the matter plainly. An’ a blind man be restored to sight at sundown, he may get a glimpse of the sun as it sinks behind the hills. The morning may dawn cloudy; and throughout the day, and even succeeding days, he may get no sight of its further glory. But it was no illusion that he had seen it, and will see it again when the clouds disperse. But he can have no more hand in dispersing the clouds, than he can have in changing the course of the sun behind them. There’s the matter as I take it. You may journey the length and breadth of the world, and come no nearer her. You must wait her own coming again.” Peregrine thought awhile; found a certain solace in Oswald’s words. At length he spoke. “Yet the boy saw her. And I, though present, saw her not.” “That bears out my thought that she is spirit,” said Oswald, “but does not prove her fancy. Though doubtless you rubbed illusion well into the child’s mind.” Peregrine was silent. Shame struck on him.