It was this secret hunger of the soul that had driven him to seek his loves outside of human companionship. The bleak grey Cornish moorland was a tenderer mother to him than Aunt Sarah, with all her kindly heart, had ever been. On his worst days, when mischief failed to help and even fighting could not cure the aching restlessness within him, he would slip away and wander on the cliffs alone for hours. Then he would lie down in some still, shadowy gorge or cleft, and bury himself in the wet fern, and find comfort somehow.
So, blind as he was and groping in the dark, he had learned to know and love the healing touch of nature. Then, when the mavis flew away, his eyes were opened, and whereas he was blind, now he saw.
For a long time he sat by the window, looking out; at last he undressed himself in the dark and crept into bed, very grave and subdued. Fortunately there was no one in the world who cared enough about him to look in upon his sleep, as happens sometimes with boys who have mothers; so his pride was safe from any one discovering that he slept with wet eyelashes. He found it out himself, though, in the morning, and was ashamed for a moment. Then he looked out of the window, and forgot to be self-conscious, seeing a new heaven and a new earth.
Then followed glorious days; long days of wonder and rejoicing, radiant with light and song and colour, or veiled in solemn clouds and mystery. Of course there were the usual annoyances; church on Sunday, school on week-days, family prayers and Bible-readings, Aunt Sarah and Uncle Josiah. But these disturbances, after all, were temporary and unimportant; he had never realised before