“Yes,” replied the child. “But it is sad. It is very thorny, and the berries are red like blood. When I see it I think of the crown of thorns, and Christ’s death.” “A sorrowful fancy,” said Peregrine, and somewhat uneasily. “’Tis not a fancy,” averred the child, discriminating nicely. “’Tis a thought. Fancies may not be over good.” “Truly,” smiled Peregrine, finding amusement despite himself at the earnest tone of the small discriminator. “What manner of fancies, may I ask?” Gravely she surveyed him. There was no mockery in his smile. An’ there had been she would have held her peace. Instead she cogitated, seeking to make her meaning clear. “I know,” she said wisely after a moment, “that there are evil spirits in the world. They roam abroad, especially in darkness. I used to fancy we were all safer from their power from Christmas till Ascension Day. I fancied Christ truly on the earth during that time. After Ascension Day He seemed further away, and sometimes I was frighted. I told this to Father Bernard. He said that it was merely fancy. He said Our Lord was ever present now upon the earth in the Blessed Sacrament, in greater glory now than when He lived on earth before. I have forgotten what more he said; but I am no longer frighted when Ascension Day is past. You see, what I held before was fancy, and—and—I cannot tell you rightly, but Father Bernard would show you that fancies are not the same as thoughts.” “Humph!” said Peregrine, having no mind to test the perspicacity of Father Bernard or any other priest on the matter. He hitched his cloak closer around him, ready to start again on his way. The movement disclosed his tabor hanging by a frayed ribbon from his neck. The child saw it; curiosity was quick astir. “What is that?” she demanded, finger pointing. “My tabor,” returned Peregrine. “Tabor?” she queried. The word as well as the instrument was unknown to her. “What is a tabor?” “A musical instrument,” said Peregrine, smiling at the little ignoramus. “Music!” Her eyes sparkled, her cheeks glowed. “Ah, play it!” This was on a note of deep entreaty. Peregrine shrugged his shoulders. Here was an interlude in his former mood of blackness. It was not wholly distasteful. You have seen that he favoured children. He found quaintness in this one. “What shall I play for you?” he demanded, unslinging the instrument. “Play while I sing,” she said firmly. “That will sound well.” Peregrine chuckled. “Truly that depends on the singing,” quoth he. “On, then, with the song.” Birdlike her voice rose in the pure air. Peregrine catching the melody came in with the tabor. Here is what she sang.