But, from the peak, no traveller returns, for the way is hopelessly cut off.  Above the timber line there is only a waste of rock, worn by vast centuries in which every day is an ordinary lifetime, into small, jagged stones that cut the feet.  The crags are thunder-swept and blown by cataclysmic storms of which the dwellers in the valley have never dreamed.  In the unspeakable loneliness, the pilgrim abides for ever with his mocking wreath of laurel, cheered only by a rumbling, reverberant “All Hail!” which comes, at age-long intervals, from some peak before whose infinite distance his finite sight fails.

At intervals throughout the day, Miss Evelina heard the Piper’s flute, always from the hills.  Each time it brought her comfort, for she knew that, as yet, he had not gone.  Once she fancied that he had gone long ago, and some woodland deity, magically transported from ancient Greece, had taken his place.  Late in the afternoon, she heard it once, but so far and faintly that she guessed it was for the last time.

In her garden there were flowers, blooming luxuriantly.  From their swaying censers, fragrant incense filled the air.  The weeds had been taken out and no trace was left.  From the garden of her heart the weeds were gone, too, but there were no flowers.  Rue and asphodel had been replaced by lavender and rosemary; the deadly black poppy had been uprooted, and where it had grown there were spikenard and balm.  Yet, as the Piper had said, she asked for roses, and it is not every garden in which roses will bloom.

At dusk she went out into her transformed garden.  Where once the thorns had held her back, the paths were straight and smooth.  Dense undergrowth and clinging vines no longer made her steps difficult.  Piper Tom had made her garden right, and opened before her, clearly, the way of her soul.

In spite of the beauty there was desolation, because the cheery presence had gone to return no more.  Her loneliness was so acute that it was almost pain, and yet the pain was bearable, because he had taught her how to endure and to look beyond.

Fairy-like, the white moths fluttered through the garden, and the crickets piped cheerily.  Miss Evelina stopped her ears that she might not hear their piping, rude reminder, as it was, of music that should come no more, but, even so, she could not shut out remembrance.

With a flash of her old resentment, she recalled how everything upon which she had ever depended had been taken away from her, almost immediately.  No sooner had she learned the sweetness of clinging than she had been forced to stand alone.  One by one the supports had been removed, until she stood alone, desolate and wretched, indeed, but alone.  Of such things as these self-reliance is made.

Suddenly, the still air seemed to stir.  A sound that was neither breath nor music, so softly was it blown, echoed in from the hills.  Then came another and another—­merest hints of melody, till at last she started up, trembling.  Surely these distant flutings were the pipes o’ Pan!