Long was the way and weary the pilgrimage, but at last he reached the beloved green Isle of the Gael, and fared into the south-west--and this is the land in which it is told that Patrick the Saint celebrated Mass on every seventh ridge he passed over.  He came at sunset on the last day of the week to the place of bells and cells among the rocks of the coast of Kerry.  In that blessed spot there is ever a service of Angels ascending and descending.  And when he saw once more the turf dyke and the wattled cells and the rude stone church of the brotherhood where he had been a son of reading in his boyhood, and the land all quiet with the labour of the week done, and the woods red with the last light of the finished day, the tears ran down his face, and he fell on the earth and kissed it for joy at his return.  It was a glad thing for him to be there once more; to recognise each spot he had loved, to look on the old stones and trees, the hills and sparkling sea, the rocky isle and the curraghs of the fisher-folk; to smell the reek of the peat curling up blue in the sweet air; for all these things had haunted him in dreams when he was in a distant land.