THE HEATHER 173 



summits are fast losing their distinctness of outline. 

 The hill-burn is beginning its twilight song, so 

 different, if only in imagination, from that of broad 

 daylight. Shadows are deepening under the woods. 

 The stream runs like a thread of silver down the 

 dimming glen. 



Tidy housewives come out to the cottage doors. 

 Their voices reach me here. The saunter down is 

 worse than the climb. I feel wondrous stiff; and 

 tired enough to sleep soundly, even on my pro- 

 crustean couch. 



