and brought himself back to reality.  Opening the gate, he made his way down through the docks and nettles till he came to the edge, and the old apple tree itself.  Unchanged!  A little more of the greygreen lichen, a dead branch or two, and for the rest it might have been only last night that he had embraced that mossy trunk after Megan’s flight and inhaled its woody savour, while above his head the moonlit blossom had seemed to breathe and live.  In that early spring a few buds were showing already; the blackbirds shouting their songs, a cuckoo calling, the sunlight bright and warm.  Incredibly the same-the chattering trout-stream, the narrow pool he had lain in every morning, splashing the water over his flanks and chest; and out there in the wild meadow the beech clump and the stone where the gipsy bogie was supposed to sit.  And an ache for lost youth, a hankering, a sense of wasted love and sweetness, gripped Ashurst by the throat.  Surely, on this earth of such wild beauty, one was meant to hold rapture to one’s heart, as this earth and sky held it!  And yet, one could not!

He went to the edge of the stream, and looking down at the little pool, thought:  ‘Youth and spring!  What has become of them all, I wonder?’

And then, in sudden fear of having this memory jarred by human encounter, he went back to the lane, and pensively retraced his steps to the crossroads.

Beside the car an old, grey-bearded labourer was leaning on a stick, talking to the chauffeur.  He broke off at once, as though guilty of disrespect, and touching his hat, prepared to limp on down the lane.

Ashurst pointed to the narrow green mound.  “Can you tell me what this is?”

The old fellow stopped; on his face had come a look as though he were thinking:  ‘You’ve come to the right shop, mister!’

“’Tes a grave,” he said.

“But why out here?”

The old man smiled.  “That’s a tale, as yu may say.  An’ not the first time as I’ve a-told et—­there’s plenty folks asks ‘bout that bit o’ turf.  ‘Maid’s Grave’ us calls et, ’ereabouts.”

Ashurst held out his pouch.  “Have a fill?”

The old man touched his hat again, and slowly filled an old clay pipe.  His eyes, looking upward out of a mass of wrinkles and hair, were still quite bright.

“If yu don’ mind, zurr, I’ll zet down my leg’s ‘urtin’ a bit today.”  And he sat down on the mound of turf.

“There’s always a flower on this grave.  An’ ’tain’t so very lonesome, neither; brave lot o’ folks goes by now, in they new motor cars an’ things—­not as ‘twas in th’ old days.  She’ve a got company up ’ere.  ’Twas a poor soul killed ’erself.”

“I see!” said Ashurst.  “Cross-roads burial.  I didn’t know that custom was kept up.”

“Ah! but ’twas a main long time ago.  Us ’ad a parson as was very God-fearin’ then.  Let me see, I’ve a ’ad my pension six year come Michaelmas, an’ I were just on fifty when t’appened.  There’s none livin’ knows more about et than what I du.  She belonged close ’ere; same farm as where I used to work along o’ Mrs. Narracombe ’tes Nick Narracombe’s now; I dus a bit for ’im still, odd times.”