“For five years,” said David, “your father has been looking for a certain plant. He says, Ellinor, that it is the ‘True-Grace,’ the _Euphrosinum_ of the ancients, called by the primitive simplers at home, ‘Star-of-Comfort.’ And its properties, as he believes, are to bring gladness to the sore heart and the drooping spirit. But all traces of it have been lost. If it still blooms, it blooms somewhere unknown. Never an autumn passes but your father plants fresh seeds, seeds that reach him from all parts of the world ... with fresh hope.” He stopped significantly. She turned to him with wide eyes; he looked back at her. Both his glance and voice were full of kindness. “That would be a precious plant, would it not?” he went on. “‘True-Grace’ ... ‘Star-of-Comfort.’ Is there such a thing in this world? To your father its discovery is what the quest of the Powder of Projection, of the Elixir of Life was to the alchemist of old; of Eldorado to the merchant-adventurer, of Truth to the philosopher—does it exist? Will he ever find it?” Then he added: “Who knows ... perhaps you will have brought him luck.” And when he had said this his dark face was lit by his rare smile. “What is it that could comfort you?” she cried, clasping her hands. His very gentleness brought her some comprehension of a sadness illimitable as when the mists rise dimly above vast seas and fall again. His face set into gravity once more, his gaze wandered from her face out through the little window to the far-off amethyst hills on the horizon. “To be able to forget ... perhaps,” he answered, as if in a dream. CHAPTER XII A KINDLY EPICURE ——The easy man Who sits at his own door; and, like the pear That overhangs his head from the green wall, Feeds in the sunshine ... —WORDSWORTH (_Reflective Poems_). The fruit in the rectory garden, the pears from the rector’s own tree, had all been culled; Madam Tutterville had seen to that. And where she ruled, if there was always abundance of the choicest description, there was no waste.