He put his pictures back in his knapsack and then walked silently through the murmuring wood.  At the edge of the wood the girl stopped.

“You are a wood-boy,” she said to the boy, “and you mustn’t come any farther.  You can give me a kiss if you like.”

The boy did not move, but stayed regarding her awkwardly.

“I think you are a very silly boy,” said the girl, with a toss of her head, and she stalked away proudly into the mist.

“Why didn’t you kiss her?” asked the man.

“Her lips would burn me,” said the boy.

The man and the boy walked slowly across the park.

“Now, boy,” said the man, “since civilisation has gone to bed the time has come for you to hear your destiny.”

“I am only a poor boy,” the boy replied simply.  “I don’t think I have any destiny.”

“Paradox,” said the man, “is meant to conceal the insincerity of the aged, not to express the simplicity of youth.  But I wander.  You have made phrases tonight.”

“What are phrases?”

“What are dreams?  What are roses?  What, in fine, is the moon?  Boy, I take you for a moon-child.  You hold her pale flowers in your arms, her white beams have caressed your limbs, you prefer the kisses of her cool lips to those of that earth-child; all this is very well.  But, above all, you have the music of her great silence; above all, you have her tears.  When I played to you on my pipe you recognised the voice of your mother.  When I showed you my pictures you recalled the tales with which she hushed you to sleep.  And so I knew that you were her son and my little brother.”

“The moon has always been my friend,” said the boy; “but I did not know that she was my mother.”

“Perhaps your sister knows it; the happy dead are glad to seek her for a mother; that is why they are so fond of white flowers.”

“We have a mother at home.  She works very hard for us.”

“But it is your mother among the clouds who makes your life beautiful, and the beauty of your life is the measure of your days.”

While the boy reflected on these things they had reached the gates of the park, and they stole past the silent lodge on to the high road.  A man was waiting there in the shadows, and when he saw the boy’s companion he rushed out and seized him by the arm.

“So I’ve got you,” he said; “I don’t think I’ll let you go again in a hurry.”

The son of the moon gave a queer little laugh.

“Why, it’s Taylor!” he said pleasantly; “but, Taylor, you know you’re making a great mistake.”

“Very possibly,” said the keeper, with a laugh.

“You see this boy here, Taylor; I assure you he is much madder than I am.”

Taylor looked at the boy kindly.

“Time you were in bed, Tommy,” he said.

“Taylor,” said the man earnestly, “this boy has made three phrases.  If you don’t lock him up he will certainly become a poet.  He will set your precious world of sanity ablaze with the fire of his mother, the moon.  Your palaces will totter, Taylor, and your kingdoms become as dust.  I have warned you.”