SEPTEMBER 363 



and there above a pair of wild duck travel like arrows from the sea. 

 The water, too, roars in the cataract and murmurs against the stones, 

 and now and again comes a splash as a heavy salmon or a sea-trout 

 springs into the air and falls into the darkling fosse. But there is no 

 other sound, no sound of man at least, and no sign of him either, 

 for the little stead lies more than a mile away. Only the tremendous 

 outline of the great mountains and the sweep of the flowery mead 

 beneath, only the eternal rush of the river and the whisper of the 

 perfumed wind, and, brooding about all, that blue and spiritual 

 light — a light in which ghosts might walk their world again. 



