spberry, strawberry, and
cherry, the wild garlic of starlike flowers, the woodruff, fragrant
as new-mown hay; the yellow pimpernel on the hedge side. I see in
the fields and meadows the bird's foot trefoil, the oxeye daisy, the
lady smocks, sweet hemlock, butterbur, the stitchwort, and the
orchis, the "long purpled" of Shakespeare. By the margin of the pond
the yellow iris hangs out its golden banners over which the dragon
fly skims. The hedgerows are gay with the full-blown dog-roses, the
bells of the bilberries droop down along the wood-side, and the
red-hipped bumble bees hum over them. Out of the woodland and up
Snaperake Lane I rise to the moorland, and then the sea coast comes
in sight, and the longing to know what lies beyond it.

I have been twice to see what lies beyond it, and when I return once
more my own land does not know me. There is another sea coast in
sight now, and when I sail away from it I hope to land on some one of
the Isles of the Blest.

I called on my oldest living love; she looked, I thought, even
younger than when we last parted. She was sitting before the fire
alone, pale and calm, but she gave me no greeting; she had forgotten
me. I took a chair, sat down beside her, and waited. A strange lass
with a fair face and strong bare arms came in and stared at me
steadily for a minute or two, but went away without saying a word. I
looked around the old house room that I knew so well, with its floor
of flags from Buckley Delph, scoured white with sandstone. There
stood, large and solid, the mealark of black oak, with the date,
1644, carved just below the heavy lid, more than 200 years old, and
as sound as ever. The sloping mirror over the chest of drawers was
still supported by the four seasons, one at each corner. Above it
was Queen Caroline, with the crown on her head, and the sceptre in
her hand, seated in a magnificent Roman chariot, drawn by the lion
and the unicorn. That team had tortured my young soul for years. I
could never understand why that savage lion had not long ago devoured
both the Queen and the unicorn.

My old love was looking at me, and at last she put one hand on my
knee, and said:

"It's George."

"Yes," I said, "it's George."

She gazed a while into the fire and said:

"Alice is dead."

"Yes, Alice is dead."

"And Jenny is dead."

"Yes, and Jenny. They are at the bottom of the sea."

In that way she counted a long list of the dead, which she close