They had crossed the road dividing the Gardens from the Park, and, seeing that Mr. Stone had already seen the water where he was about to bathe, and would now see nothing else, Hilary stopped beside a little lonely birch-tree.  This wild, small, graceful visitor, who had long bathed in winter, was already draping her bare limbs in a scarf of green.  Hilary leaned against her cool, pearly body.  Below were the chilly waters, now grey, now starch-blue, and the pale forms of fifteen or twenty bathers.  While he stood shivering in the frozen wind, the sun, bursting through the hail-cloud, burned his cheeks and hands.  And suddenly he heard, clear, but far off, the sound which, of all others, stirs the hearts of men:  “Cuckoo, cuckoo!”

Four times over came the unexpected call.  Whence had that ill-advised, indelicate grey bird flown into this great haunt of men and shadows?  Why had it come with its arrowy flight and mocking cry to pierce the heart and set it aching?  There were trees enough outside the town, cloud-swept hollows, tangled brakes of furze just coming into bloom, where it could preside over the process of Spring.  What solemn freak was this which made it come and sing to one who had no longer any business with the Spring?

With a real spasm in his heart Hilary turned away from that distant bird, and went down to the water’s edge.  Mr. Stone was swimming, slower than man had ever swum before.  His silver head and lean arms alone were visible, parting the water feebly; suddenly he disappeared.  He was but a dozen yards from the shore; and Hilary, alarmed at not seeing him reappear, ran in.  The water was not deep.  Mr. Stone, seated at the bottom, was doing all he could to rise.  Hilary took him by his bathing-dress, raised him to the surface, and supported him towards the land.  By the time they reached the shore he could just stand on his legs.  With the assistance of a policeman, Hilary enveloped him in garments and got him to a cab.  He had regained some of his vitality, but did not seem aware of what had happened.

“I was not in as long as usual,” he mused, as they passed out into the high road.

“Oh, I think so, sir.”

Mr. Stone looked troubled.

“It is odd,” he said.  “I do not recollect leaving the water.”

He did not speak again till he was being assisted from the cab.

“I wish to recompense the man.  I have half a crown indoors.”

“I will get it, sir,” said Hilary.

Mr. Stone, who shivered violently now that he was on his feet, turned his face up to the cabman.

“Nothing is nobler than the horse,” he said; “take care of him.”

The cabman removed his hat.  “I will, sir,” he answered.

Walking by himself, but closely watched by Hilary, Mr. Stone reached his room.  He groped about him as though not distinguishing objects too well through the crystal clearness of the fundamental flux.