Ascending a gentle hill of some extent, he came to a few cottages.  There, looking about him as a very reserved man might who had never looked about him in his life before, he saw some six or eight young children come merrily trooping and whooping from one of the cottages, and disperse.  But not until they had all turned at the little garden-gate, and kissed their hands to a face at the upper window:  a low window enough, although the upper, for the cottage had but a story of one room above the ground.

Now, that the children should do this was nothing; but that they should do this to a face lying on the sill of the open window, turned towards them in a horizontal position, and apparently only a face, was something noticeable.  He looked up at the window again.  Could only see a very fragile, though a very bright face, lying on one cheek on the window-sill.  The delicate smiling face of a girl or woman.  Framed in long bright brown hair, round which was tied a light blue band or fillet, passing under the chin.

He walked on, turned back, passed the window again, shyly glanced up again.  No change.  He struck off by a winding branch-road at the top of the hill—­which he must otherwise have descended—­kept the cottages in view, worked his way round at a distance so as to come out once more into the main road, and be obliged to pass the cottages again.  The face still lay on the window-sill, but not so much inclined towards him.  And now there were a pair of delicate hands too.  They had the action of performing on some musical instrument, and yet it produced no sound that reached his ears.

“Mugby Junction must be the maddest place in England,” said Barbox Brothers, pursuing his way down the hill.  “The first thing I find here is a Railway Porter who composes comic songs to sing at his bedside.  The second thing I find here is a face, and a pair of hands playing a musical instrument that don’t play!”

The day was a fine bright day in the early beginning of November, the air was clear and inspiriting, and the landscape was rich in beautiful colours.  The prevailing colours in the court off Lombard Street, London city, had been few and sombre.  Sometimes, when the weather elsewhere was very bright indeed, the dwellers in those tents enjoyed a pepper-and-salt-coloured day or two, but their atmosphere’s usual wear was slate or snuff coloured.

He relished his walk so well that he repeated it next day.  He was a little earlier at the cottage than on the day before, and he could hear the children upstairs singing to a regular measure, and clapping out the time with their hands.

“Still, there is no sound of any musical instrument,” he said, listening at the corner, “and yet I saw the performing hands again as I came by.  What are the children singing?  Why, good Lord, they can never be singing the multiplication table?”