The hermit handed Igraine a hoe, as a matter of custom, and set her to work on the weeds in a neglected corner, while he busied his hands with pruning some of his rose trees, and removing the clay and linen from his grafts. He was by no means the solemn, dismal soul or the kindly simpleton Igraine might have expected. He had a keen, world-wise air about him that made him seem a sort of Christian Diogenes, and it was plain that he had lived much among men. The mingled austerity and happiness of his habits, when set beside his inwardly sympathetic yet somewhat cynic humour, gave a strong interest to his personality that quite commanded Igraine's liking. Despite the vast responsibilities of man, as he himself put it, he was not above having a jest at life in general. "For," said he, as he pruned his rose bushes, "he who knows and obeys the truth can of all men afford to be merry." Igraine, smiling through the boughs, agreed with him from her heart. "There are no sour faces in heaven," she said. "Assuredly not," said the hermit almost fiercely. "Then why such mortifications of the flesh, father?" Looking up from his pruning, he beamed over the world. "I am a very human rogue." "Human!" "Well, you see, sister, _mea culpa_, I loved the world when I was in it like my own life, and even now if I did not gnash upon myself I should grow frivolous at times. When I have spent a night in the rain, or plied my scourge, it is marvellous how swiftly vain the fabrics of a vaunting pride become. 'I am dust, I am dust,' I cry, and am sound at heart again. I look upon bread and olives and a draught of river water as true godsends. Having endured exceeding discomfort of the flesh, I am as happy in the sun here among my flowers as a mortal could be." Igraine rested on her hoe, and put her head back, while the evening light gave her hair a rare metallic lustre. "You believe in a life of contrasts, father?" The old man became suddenly more serious. "To tell you the truth," he said, "I have found that by making myself fanatically uncomfortable so many hours a day, I can attain for the rest of it that simple, contented, and heaven-soaring mood that belongs to the honest Christian. Man's great peril is apathy, and my customs save me from sleepy ease. There is such a thing as living to pander to the flesh; it is the creed of the majority. In order to enjoy a truly spiritual end, I annihilate the appetites of the body, and _ecce homo_,--merry, conscience whole, clean." Igraine resumed her harrowing of reprobate green-stuff. "I suppose your doctrine is right for yourself," she said. An answer came back to her leisurely over the rose bush.