And, at length, we came to a comparatively open space where the trees halted upon us for a while, and, looking up, I saw the white river of the sky beginning to yield to the influence of a new light that now seemed spreading swiftly across the heavens.

“It is the dawn coming,” said the voice at my side that I certainly recognised, but which seemed almost like a whispering from the trees, “and we are now in the heart of the Wood of the Dead.”

We seated ourselves on a moss-covered boulder and waited the coming of the sun.  With marvellous swiftness, it seemed to me, the light in the east passed into the radiance of early morning, and when the wind awoke and began to whisper in the tree tops, the first rays of the risen sun fell between the trunks and rested in a circle of gold at our feet.

“Now, come with me,” whispered my companion in the same deep voice, “for time has no existence here, and that which I would show you is already there!”

We trod gently and silently over the soft pine needles.  Already the sun was high over our heads, and the shadows of the trees coiled closely about their feet.  The wood became denser again, but occasionally we passed through little open bits where we could smell the hot sunshine and the dry, baked pine needles.  Then, presently, we came to the edge of the grove, and I saw a hayfield lying in the blaze of day, and two horses basking lazily with switching tails in the shafts of a laden hay-waggon.

So complete and vivid was the sense of reality, that I remember the grateful realisation of the cool shade where we sat and looked out upon the hot world beyond.

The last pitchfork had tossed up its fragrant burden, and the great horses were already straining in the shafts after the driver, as he walked slowly in front with one hand upon their bridles.  He was a stalwart fellow, with sunburned neck and hands.  Then, for the first time, I noticed, perched aloft upon the trembling throne of hay, the figure of a slim young girl.  I could not see her face, but her brown hair escaped in disorder from a white sun-bonnet, and her still browner hands held a well-worn hay rake.  She was laughing and talking with the driver, and he, from time to time, cast up at her ardent glances of admiration—­glances that won instant smiles and soft blushes in response.

The cart presently turned into the roadway that skirted the edge of the wood where we were sitting.  I watched the scene with intense interest and became so much absorbed in it that I quite forgot the manifold, strange steps by which I was permitted to become a spectator.

“Come down and walk with me,” cried the young fellow, stopping a moment in front of the horses and opening wide his arms.  “Jump! and I’ll catch you!”

“Oh, oh,” she laughed, and her voice sounded to me as the happiest, merriest laughter I had ever heard from a girl’s throat.  “Oh, oh! that’s all very well.  But remember I’m Queen of the Hay, and I must ride!”