visions that sleepless night were kindly and wistful and exciting.  One vision, specially clear and unreasonable, for he had not even been conscious of noting it, was the face of the youth cleaning the gun; its intent, stolid, yet startled uplook at the kitchen doorway, quickly shifted to the girl carrying the cider jug.  This red, blue-eyed, light-lashed, tow-haired face stuck as firmly in his memory as the girl’s own face, so dewy and simple.  But at last, in the square of darkness through the uncurtained casement, he saw day coming, and heard one hoarse and sleepy caw.  Then followed silence, dead as ever, till the song of a blackbird, not properly awake, adventured into the hush.  And, from staring at the framed brightening light, Ashurst fell asleep.

Next day his knee was badly swollen; the walking tour was obviously over.  Garton, due back in London on the morrow, departed at midday with an ironical smile which left a scar of irritation—­healed the moment his loping figure vanished round the corner of the steep lane.  All day Ashurst rested his knee, in a green-painted wooden chair on the patch of grass by the yew-tree porch, where the sunlight distilled the scent of stocks and gillyflowers, and a ghost of scent from the flowering-currant bushes.  Beatifically he smoked, dreamed, watched.

A farm in spring is all birth-young things coming out of bud and shell, and human beings watching over the process with faint excitement feeding and tending what has been born.  So still the young man sat, that a mother-goose, with stately cross-footed waddle, brought her six yellow-necked grey-backed goslings to strop their little beaks against the grass blades at his feet.  Now and again Mrs. Narracombe or the girl Megan would come and ask if he wanted anything, and he would smile and say:  “Nothing, thanks.  It’s splendid here.”  Towards tea-time they came out together, bearing a long poultice of some dark stuff in a bowl, and after a long and solemn scrutiny of his swollen knee, bound it on.  When they were gone, he thought of the girl’s soft “Oh!”—­of her pitying eyes, and the little wrinkle in her brow.  And again he felt that unreasoning irritation against his departed friend, who had talked such rot about her.  When she brought out his tea, he said: 

“How did you like my friend, Megan?”

She forced down her upper lip, as if afraid that to smile was not polite.  “He was a funny gentleman; he made us laugh.  I think he is very clever.”

“What did he say to make you laugh?”

“He said I was a daughter of the bards.  What are they?”

“Welsh poets, who lived hundreds of years ago.”

“Why am I their daughter, please?”

“He meant that you were the sort of girl they sang about.”

She wrinkled her brows.  “I think he likes to joke.  Am I?”

“Would you believe me, if I told you?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Well, I think he was right.”