it, and it
seemed as though some merry thought came into his head, for he beat
cheerfully with his fingers on the parapet. Presently he seemed to
bethink himself, and then walked briskly to the end of the terrace,
where was a little door in the wall; he pushed this open, and found
himself at the head of a flight of stone steps, with low walls on
either hand, that ran turning and twisting according to the slope of
the hill, down into the wood.

Paul went lightly down the steps; once or twice he turned and looked
up at the grey walls and towers of the castle, rising from the steep
green turf at their foot, above the great leafless trees--for the
trees on the slope lost their leaves first in the wind. The sight
pleased him, for he smiled again. Then he stood for a moment, lower
down, to watch the great limbs and roots of a huge beech that seemed
to cling to the slope for fear of slipping downwards. He came
presently to a little tower at the bottom that guarded the steps. The
door was locked; he knocked, and there came out an old woman with a
merry wrinkled face, who opened it for him with a key, saying, "Do you
go to the hunt, Sir Paul?" "Nay," he said, smiling, "only to walk a
little alone in the wood." "To make music, perhaps?" said the old
woman shyly. "Perhaps," said Paul, smiling, "if the music come--but it
will not always come for the wishing."

As Paul walked in the deep places of the wood, little by little his
fresh holiday mood died away, and there crept upon him a shadow of
thought that had of late been no stranger to him. He asked himself,
with some bitterness, what his life was tending to. There was no loss
of skill in his art; indeed it was easier to him than ever; he had a
rich and prodigal store of music in him, music both of word and sound,
that came at his call. But the zest was leaving him. He had attained
to his utmost desire, and in his art there was nothing more to
conquer. But as he looked round about him and saw all the beautiful
chains of love multiplying themselves about those among whom he lived,
he began to wonder whether he was not after all missing life itself.
He saw children born, he saw them growing up; then they, too, found
their own path of love, they married, or were given in marriage;
presently they had children of their own; and even death itself, that
carried well-loved souls into the dark world, seemed to forge new
chains of faith and loyalty. All this he could say and did say in h