He went down the path to the little cove. He watched the ripple of water advance and retreat. The stream of fresh water that ran through it was crystal clear and he bent down, made a cup with his hands and drank. He could see the pebbles, brown and red and green like jewels, and thin spires of green weed swaying to and fro.
He buried his face in the water, letting it wash his eyes, his forehead, his nostrils, his mouth.
He stood up and drank in the silence. The ripple of the sea was like the touch on his arm of a friend. He kneeled down and let the fine sand run, hot, through his fingers. Then he moved on.
He climbed the hill: a flock of sheep passed him, huddling together, crying, nosing the hedge. The sun touched the outline of their fleece to shining light. He cried out to the shepherd:
"A fine morning!"
"Aye, a beautiful morning!"
"A nasty fog last night."
"Aye, aye—all cleared off now though. It'll be a warm day."
The dog, his tongue out, his eyes shining, ran barking hither, thither. They passed over the hill, the sheep like a cloud against the green.
He pushed up, the breeze blowing more strongly now on his forehead.
He reached the cottage gardens, and the smell of roses was once more thick in his nostrils. The
