The morning was so pure, the air so delicious, and its touch so exquisite on the cheek, that he could not bear even to think of a close bedroom and the heat of a feather bed.  He went into his garden, and walking up and down he appreciated the beauty of every flower, none seeming to him as beautiful as the anemones, and he thought of Nora Glynn living in a grimy London lodging, whereas he was here amid many flowers—­anemones blue, scarlet, and purple, their heads bent down on their stalks.  New ones were pushing up to replace the ones that had blown and scattered the evening before.  The gentians were not yet open, and he thought how they would look in a few hours—­bluer than the mid-day sky.  He passed through the wicket, and stood on the hill-top watching the mists sinking lower.  The dawn light strengthened—­the sky filled with pale tints of emerald, mauve, and rose.  A cormorant opened his wings and flew down the lake, his fellows followed soon after; but Father Oliver stood on the hill-top waiting for daybreak.  At last a red ball appeared behind a reddish cloud; its colour changed to the colour of flame, paled again, and at four flared up like a rose-coloured balloon.

The day had begun, and he turned towards his house.  But he couldn’t sleep; the house was repellent, and he waited among the thorn-bushes and ferns.  Of what use to lie in one’s bed when sleep is far and will not be beckoned? and his brain being clear as day he went away to the woods and watersides, saying:  ’Life is orientated like a temple; there are in every existence days when life streams down the nave, striking the forehead of the God.’  And during his long life Father Oliver always looked back upon the morning when he invaded the pantry and cut large slices of bread, taking the butter out of the old red crock, with a little happy sadness in his heart.  He wrapped the slices in paper and wandered without thought for whither he was going, watching the birds in the branches, interested in everything.  He was fortunate enough to catch sight of an otter asleep on a rock, and towards evening he came upon a wild-duck’s nest in the sedge; many of the ducklings had broken their shells; these struggled after the duck; but there were two prisoners, two that could not escape from their shells, and, seeing their lives would be lost if he did not come to their aid, he picked the shells away and took them to the water’s edge, for he had heard Catherine say that one could almost see little ducks growing when they had had a drop of water.  The old duck swam about uttering a whistling sound, her cry that her ducklings were to join her.  And thinking of the lives he had saved, he felt a sudden regret that he had not come upon the nest earlier, when Christy brought him Father O’Grady’s letter.