240 THE LIFE OF TEE FIELDS. 



edges their faint sloping lines are seen in the air, where 

 a million motes impart a fleeting solidity to the atmo- 

 sphere. A pink-painted front, the golden eagle of the 

 great West, golden lettering, every chance strip and 

 speck of colour is washed in the dazzling light, made 

 clear and evident. The hands and numerals of the 

 clock yonder are distinct and legible, the white dial- 

 plate polished ; a window suddenly opened throws a 

 flash across the square. Eastwards the air in front of 

 the white walls quivers, heat and light reverberating 

 visibly, and the dry flowers on the window sills burn 

 red and yellow in the glare. Southwards green trees, 

 far down the street, stand, as it seems, almost at the 

 foot of the chiselled tower of Parliament — chiselled 

 in straight lines and perpendicular grooves, each of 

 which casts a shadow into itself. Again, the corners 

 advanced before the main wall throw shadows on it, 

 and the hollow casements draw shadows into their 

 cavities. Thus, in the bright light against the blue 

 sky the tower pencils itself with a dark crayon, and 

 is built, not of stone, but of light and shadow. 

 Flowing lines of water rise and fall from the fountains 

 in the square, drooping like the boughs of a weeping 

 ash, drifted a little to one side by an imperceptible 

 air, and there sprinkling the warm pavement in a 

 sparkling shower. The shower of finely divided spray 

 now advances and now retreats, as the column of water 

 bends to the current of air, or returns to its upright 

 position. 



By a pillared gateway there is a group in scarlet, 

 and from time to time other groups in scarlet pass 

 and repass within the barrack-court. A cream-tinted 



