his journey--mistrust, secrecy, resentment.

The priest caught the tone. His gray eyes under their bushy brows
looked kindly but searchingly at the soldier and smiled a little.
He set down his bag and leaned on his stick. "Well," he said, "I
can tell you one thing, my son. At all events it was not chance
that brought me here. I came with a purpose."

The soldier started a little, stung by suspicion. "What then," he
cried, roughly, "were you looking for me? What do you know of me?
What is this talk of chance and purpose?"

"Come, come," said the priest, his smile spreading from his eyes
to his lips, "do not be angry. I assure you that I know nothing of
you whatever, not even your name nor why you are here. When I said
that I came with a purpose I meant only that a certain thought, a
wish, led me to this spot. Let us sit together awhile beside the
spring and make better acquaintance."

"I do not desire it," said the soldier, with a frown.

"But you will not refuse it?" queried the priest gently. "It is
not good to refuse the request of one old enough to be your father.
Look, I have here some excellent tobacco and cigarette-papers. Let
us sit down and smoke together. I will tell you who I am and the
purpose that brought me here."

The soldier yielded grudgingly, not knowing what else to do. They
sat down on a mossy bank beside the spring, and while the blue
smoke of their cigarettes went drifting under the little trees the