rden. If one of them finds a worm, I notice that his
devotion to that principle of self-preservation which prevails in all low
forms of life forbids his sharing it with any of the other little
thrushes."

Mr. Stone had fixed his eyes on distance.

"So it is, I fear," he said, "with 'honour.' In those days men looked on
women as thrushes look on worms."

He paused, evidently searching for a word; and Hilary, with a faint
smile, said:

"And how did women look on men, sir?"

Mr. Stone observed him with surprise. "I did not perceive that it was
you," he said. "I have to avoid brain action before bathing."

They had crossed the road dividing the Gardens from the Park, and, seeing
that Mr. Stone had already seen the water where he was about to bathe,
and would now see nothing else, Hilary stopped beside a little lonely
birch-tree. This wild, small, graceful visitor, who had long bathed in
winter, was already draping her bare limbs in a scarf of green. Hilary
leaned against her cool, pearly body. Below were the chilly waters, now
grey, now starch-blue, and the pale forms of fifteen or twenty bathers.
While he stood shivering in the frozen wind, the sun, bursting through
the hail-cloud, burned his cheeks and hands. And suddenly he heard,
clear, but far off, the sound which, of all others, stirs the hearts of
men: "Cuckoo, cuckoo!"

Four times over came the unexpected call. Whence had that ill-advised,
indelicate grey bird flown into this great haunt of men and shadows? Why
had it come with its arrowy flight and mocking cry to pierce the heart
and set it aching? There were trees enough outside the town, cloud-swept
hollows, tangled brakes of furze just coming into bloom, where it could
preside over the process of Spring. What solemn freak was this which
made it come and sing to one who had no longer any business with the
Spring?

With a real spasm in his heart Hilary turned away from that distant bird,
and went down to the water's edge. Mr. Stone was swimming, slower than
man had ever swum before. His silver head and lean arms alone were
visible, parting the water feebly; suddenly he disappeared. He was but a
dozen yards from the shore; and Hilary, alarmed at not seeing him
reappear, ran in. The water was not deep. Mr. Stone, seated at the
bottom, was doing all he could to rise. Hilary took him by his
bathing-dress, raised him to the surface, and supported him towards the
land. By the time they reached