A New Face at the Door. 153 



calling. The mellowed voices of the rooks rise faint 



from distant fields. 



Just off the homeward path that wanders down the 



steep slope of the orchard lies a fallen tree, its ancient 



stem half hidden among grass and ferns. Strong 



young branches springing upward arch it over. It is 



the very 



' seat beneath the shade, 

 For talking age and whispering lovers made.' 



No breath of wind sways the long arms of briar and 

 tall plumes of grass that crown the hedgerow. Nothing 

 is stirring but the gnats that hover in the twilight air, 

 tiny feet of timid field-mice rustling in the bushes, or 

 restless blackbirds calling to each other in the thick 

 shelter of the hedges in the lane. 



The smoke of a woodman's fire, mingling with the 

 soft vapour that rises from the meadows, steals slow 

 along the distant hill. 



Through the mist that veils the far horizon, a line 

 of glory shows for a moment on the cold grey water — 

 the last gleam of the sun — 



' Like a golden goblet falling 

 And sinking into the sea.' 



Yonder among the trees shows the white roof of 

 Barton Camp, the shelter of the little colony of waifs 

 that, year by year, are brought by kind hands out of 

 dark corners of the city, to taste the sweet air of the 

 hills, to wander through green fields and pleasant 

 lanes. 



