It might surely account for one of the visions. But
the visions themselves had been gentle visions —
our Lord and the little bird, that had been charming
—a charming fancy —quite a picture it made; our
Lord with the little bird in His hands : . . but of
course Christophe knew all about Saint Francis,
that was how things got themselves jumbled up,
but no matter . , . None of it mattered at all so
long as one did not allow one's fancies to masquerade
as the truths of religion. Christophe had his Church
and his Church had Truth. Jan had been silly about
the whole business, had given it all too much import-
ance. He, the Cure, had had a long talk with Jan
who had promised not to be so impulsive: 'And now,
Christophe, put it right out of your head. Do not
worry yourself, just be a good boy and pray to the
Sacred Heart of our Lord that your First Com-
munion may be very perfect.'
Thus*the Cure Martel, who had honestly made a
great effort to advise with kindness and wisdom.
But neither Jan's folly nor the Cure's wisdom had
been able to dim the memory of those visions, or to
rob them of their deep reality — for the tangible is
never so entirely real as that which is seen by the
eyes of the Spirit.
It was strange perhaps that the boy did not turn to
his mother at this time of bewilderment and trouble,
or even to the father whose stalwart love made up
for a certain lack of understanding, but stranger
still that he should have found consolation in the
companionship of Anfos. And yet so it was, for to
Anfos he went during many a desolate hour in the
evening; to Anfos who would often remain in the
workshop striving to capture nomad thoughts in
the net of his wonderfully skilful carving. Anfos
had taken to carving flowers — oleanders, carnations,
sprays of mimosa; to carving the tendrils and leaves
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