The quiet and sunshine of the old-fashioned, untidy garden were congenial to him. He wandered about it, inhaling the scent of roses and carnations, and the rich, spicy odours of picotees and the old-fashioned white pink. The sun shone pleasantly upon everything, doing his best towards ripening the young pears and apples on the trees, and bringing the flowers into more ample bloom. Where is the charm that can compete with that which pervades an old-fashioned English garden?—the flavour of grace and quaintness, and the suggestions of a ‘gentle life’ which hang about such a garden are to be found nowhere else. Wellfield had turned his back to the gate, and was looking at the great, blunt, boulder-shaped head of Penhull, and observing the purple mist of heather which clothed its mighty sides, when a voice behind him said: ‘Mr. Wellfield!’ He turned, a curious thrill shooting through him. The speaker must, he thought, have almost stolen up to him, so noiseless had been his approach. He confronted a tall, spare man, in the dress of an ecclesiastic. The voice in which he had spoken was soft and musical; he took off his hat with a smile, as Jerome’s eyes met his, and the smile was a singularly fascinating one, giving an expression of exceeding graciousness and sweetness to a pale, finely cut, ascetic-looking countenance. There was a courtly grace in the man’s appearance, in his bow and manner. For a moment Wellfield paused, then, bowing in his turn, said: ‘Surely I cannot be mistaken—you are the Father Pablo Somerville whom I met years ago?’ ‘The same,’ he replied. ‘I am glad to find you remember me. For me, I saw you as I passed the garden, and concluded it was you; but had I met you anywhere else, I should have known you instantly.’ ‘Am I so little changed, then?’ ‘Not much. And,’ with a slight smile, ‘even had you changed a good deal, yours is not a face one soon forgets.’ Wellfield held out his hand, saying cordially, ‘I am glad to see you.’ He felt glad. In Somerville’s presence he felt at ease—felt as though he were with one of his own kind; a sensation he had never experienced since before his father’s death, and which was pleasant to him, as it is pleasant to return to European civilisation, with its beloved and elaborate shams, after wandering amidst the primitive and repulsive honesty of savages; as it is pleasant to return to stove-heated rooms and a perfumed atmosphere, to rich meats and dainty wines, after a forced sojourn amongst bare boards, hard pallets, and a diet of bread and water. Such exactly was the sensation experienced now by Wellfield, as he clasped hands with this high-bred, polished-looking priest and man of the world. ‘I would ask you into my house, but I doubt whether there is a chair in it fit to sit upon. I only arrived here yesterday, and am surveying now all the home that I have.’