drawing back from the light truly apprehended by us. We forget
this, and judge other men by the light of our own soul.

I think the old bishop must have understood it. He is my friend of
friends as he lies opposite my window in his alabaster sleep, clad
in pontifical robes, with unshod feet, a little island of white
peace in a many-coloured marble sea. The faithful sculptor has
given every line and wrinkle, the heavy eyelids and sunken face of
tired old age, but withal the smile of a contented child.

I do not even know my bishop's name, only that the work is of the
thirteenth century; but he is good to company with through the day,
for he has known darkness and light and the minds of many men; most
surely, too, he has known that God fulfils Himself in strange ways,
so with the shadow of his feet upon the polished floor he rests in
peace.



CHAPTER IV



On Sunday my little tree was limned in white and the sparrows were
craving shelter at my window from the blizzard. Now the mild thin
air brings a breath of spring in its wake and the daffodils in the
garden wait the kisses of the sun. Hand-in-hand with memory I slip
away down the years, and remember a day when I awoke at earliest
dawn, for across my sleep I had heard the lusty golden-throated
trumpeters heralding the spring.