It was a late autumn day in November:  the air was cold and damp, the roads wet, the hedges hung with moisture and the leaves were almost gone from the trees.  “Most people don’t like this sort of day,” said Father Payne, as we went out of the gate; “but I like it even better than spring.  Everything seems going contentedly to sleep, like a tired child.  All the plants are withdrawing into themselves, into the inner life.  They have had a pleasant time, waving their banners about—­but they have no use for them any more.  They are all going to be alone for a bit.  Do you remember that epithet of Keats, about the ‘cool-rooted’ flowers?  That’s a bit of genius.  That’s what makes the difference between people, I think—­whether they are cool-rooted or not.”

He walked more slowly than was his wont to-day, but he seemed in equable spirits, and made many exclamations of delight.  He said suddenly, “Do you know one of the advantages of growing old?  It is that if you have an unpleasant thing ahead of you, instead of shadowing the mind, as it does when you are young, it gives a sort of relish to the intervening time.  I can even imagine a man in the condemned cell, till the end gets close, being able to look ahead to the day, when he wakes in the morning—­the square meals, the pipe—­I believe they allow them to smoke—­the talk with the chaplain.  It’s always nice to feel it is your duty to talk about yourself, and to explain how it all came about, and why you couldn’t do otherwise.  Now I have got to go up to town on some tiresome business at the end of this week, and I’m going to enjoy the days in between.”

He stopped and spoke with all his accustomed good humour to half a dozen people whom we met.  Then he said to me:  “Do you know, my boy, I want to tell you that you have been one of my successes!  I did not honestly think you would buckle to as you have done, and I don’t think you are quite as sympathetic as I once feared!” He gave me a smile as he said it, and went on:  “You know what I mean—­I thought you would reflect people too much, and be too responsive to your companions.  And you have been a great comfort to me, I don’t deny it.  But I thankfully discern a good hard stone in the middle of all the juiciness, with a tight little kernel inside it—­I’ll quote Keats again, and say ‘a sweet-hearted kernel,’ Mind, I don’t say you will do great things.  You are facile, and you see things very quickly and accurately, and you have a style.  But I don’t think you have got the tragic quality or the passionate gift.  You are too placid and contented—­but you spin along, and I think you see something of the reality of things.  You will be led forth beside the waters of comfort—­you will lack nothing—­your cup will be full.  But the great work is done by people with large empty cups that take some filling—­the people who are given the plenteousness of tears to drink.  It’s a bitter draught—­you won’t have to drink it.  But I think you are on right and happy lines, and you must be content with good work.  Anyhow, you will always write like a gentleman, and that’s a good deal to say.”