There are no everlasting flowers.

It is the flowers of the thyme in which the bees are rioting.

And in the hedge bottom there creepeth the bitter-sweet." But the hermit heard him not.

He had groped his way out into the sunshine, and wandered up and down the walks, murmuring to himself, "Then I shall see." Now when the Summer was past, one Autumn morning there came to the garden gate a man in pilgrim's weeds; and when he saw the boy he beckoned to him, and giving him a small tuber root, he said, "Give this to thy master.

It is the root of the Trinity Flower." And he passed on down towards the valley.
Then the boy ran hastily to the hermit; and when he had told him, and given him the root, he said, "The face of the pilgrim is known to me also, O my Father! For I remember when I lay sick of the plague, that ever it seemed to me as if a shadowy figure passed in and out, and went up and down the streets, and his face was as the face of this pilgrim.