the wheel-house were all dim and bluish,
the apple trees but a blurred wilderness; the air smelled of woodsmoke
from the kitchen fire. One bird going to bed later than the others was
uttering a half-hearted twitter, as though surprised at the darkness.
From the stable came the snuffle and stamp of a feeding horse. And away
over there was the loom of the moor, and away and away the shy stars
which had not as yet full light, pricking white through the deep blue
heavens. A quavering owl hooted. Ashurst drew a deep breath. What a
night to wander out in! A padding of unshod hoofs came up the lane, and
three dim, dark shapes passed--ponies on an evening march. Their heads,
black and fuzzy, showed above the gate. At the tap of his pipe, and a
shower of little sparks, they shied round and scampered. A bat went
fluttering past, uttering its almost inaudible "chip, chip." Ashurst
held out his hand; on the upturned palm he could feel the dew. Suddenly
from overhead he heard little burring boys' voices, little thumps of
boots thrown down, and another voice, crisp and soft--the girl's putting
them to bed, no doubt; and nine clear words "No, Rick, you can't have the
cat in bed"; then came a skirmish of giggles and gurgles, a soft slap, a
laugh so low and pretty that it made him shiver a little. A blowing
sound, and the glim of the candle which was fingering the dusk above,
went out; silence reigned. Ashurst withdrew into the room and sat down;
his knee pained him, and his soul felt gloomy.

"You go to the kitchen," he said; "I'm going to bed."

3

For Ashurst the wheel of slumber was wont to turn noiseless and slick and
swift, but though he seemed sunk in sleep when his companion came up, he
was really wide awake; and long after Carton, smothered in the other bed
of that low-roofed room, was worshipping darkness with his upturned nose,
he heard the owls. Barring the discomfort of his knee, it was not
unpleasant--the cares of life did not loom large in night watches for
this young man. In fact he had none; just enrolled a barrister, with
literary aspirations, the world before him, no father or mother, and four
hundred a year of his own. Did it matter where he went, what he did, or
when he did it? His bed, too, was hard, and this preserved him from
fever. He lay, sniffing the scent of the night which drifted into the
low room through the open casement close to his head. Except for a
definite irritation with h