and when it seems the bravest thing that can be designed to be
alive.

Once or twice, as Paul leaned to look, there came from the wood, very
far away, the faint notes of a horn; he smiled to hear 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