At last there came a warm and sunny day, and Bilbo made up a couple of bread-and-butter sandwiches in his little kitchen, and filled a stone flask with tea. He wrapped the sandwich in a napkin and put it in his pocket, along with the tea, and set out on a ramble. He decided to keep to the paths--there were many of them which he had never before trod, which would be interesting--but all of the paths eventually led back to the house, so he would not risk getting lost. He looked at Trotter's book, and nearly reached to take it with him, but then shook his head. He wished to enjoy the pleasant warmth of the weather while he could. Time enough to read when he returned; it would distract him from the aches in his bones-- inevitable, these days, if he took a bit of exercise. He sighed. Age had caught him at last, he feared.

He walked slowly, enjoying the gardens. Elven gardens were so different than those of hobbits-- in some ways, they seemed wilder, and yet in other ways they seemed very--not tame, he thought. Perhaps obedient was the word he sought. Yet that did not seem quite right either. He stopped to stare at an especially graceful poplar.

After a while he stopped at one of the many conveniently placed benches to have his elevenses. After he finished with his sandwich, he sipped at his flask, closing his eyes to bask in the sunshine, swinging his toes like a child.

"Good morning, Bilbo Baggins," said a familiar voice behind him.

Bilbo startled, but he did not turn around. Very deliberately, he said "What do you mean? Do you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not?"

He was rewarded by a roar of hearty, booming laughter. "Ah, I have missed you, old friend! How are you settling, here among the Elves?"

Bilbo looked around. "It's good to see you, Gandalf. To answer your question, I am settling in well."

Gandalf sat next to him, and took out his pipe. Bilbo took his own, and for a while they puffed away in silence.

"I find that I am not the first hobbit to dwell here," Bilbo finally said.

"I wondered if you would discover the truth about Hildifons."

"I found his journal."

"Ah!"

"I still do not understand, though, Gandalf. You told him you would inform his family that he was alive and well, but I know that my aunts and uncles all firmly believed he was dead."

Gandalf shook his head. "No, I said I would tell his father. And so I did. I told Gerontius the whole story so far as I knew it. He was distressed over the danger his son had been in, but was unsurprised that Hildifons wished to stay with the Men. He told me that perhaps he and Adamanta had been wrong to treat Hildifons' disappointment in love as a mere infatuation on his part-- he thought perhaps if they had taken the situation more seriously it would have helped. At any rate, he told the story to Adamanta as I had told him. However, she did not believe it. She had long since accepted her son's supposed death, for she was sure he would have returned to them before, if he were alive. She put my story down to misguided 'kindness' on my part-- an attempt to give the family some hope. Given his wife's response, Gerontius decided not to say anything to the others. He told me to let Hildifons know that he could return whenever he wished, however."

"But he never did."

"No."

"I'm puzzled about something, Gandalf. Trotter said in his journal that you had never displayed your fireworks in Two Rivers before that year, and he wondered why you did so then. He could not understand, he said."

Gandalf chuckled. "And do you understand, Bilbo?"

Bilbo shook his head. "No. Are you going to tell me?"

He looked down at Bilbo, a twinkle in his dark eyes. "Why it's simple enough, Bilbo Baggins. I only make fireworks for hobbits."