t was
intended for rings to hang upon, he wished he had a dozen rings to adorn
so neat a device.

After he had with Miss Carthew's help unpacked and put his clothes away,
Michael joined Nancy in the stable-yard. He stroked the donkey and the
dun-coloured pony and watched the fantail pigeons in snowy circles
against the pale blue sky. He watched the gardener stirring up some
strange stuff for the pig that grunted impatiently. He watched the
pleasant Carthew cook shelling peas in the slanting sunlight by the
kitchen door. The air was very peaceful, full of soft sounds of lowing
cows, of ducks and hens and sheep. The air was spangled with glittering
insects: over a red wall hung down the branch of a plum tree, loaded
with creamy ovals of fruit, already rose-flushed with summer. Nancy said
they must soon go into the garden.

"Is there a garden more than this?" Michael asked. His bedroom window
had looked out on to the stable-yard.

"Through here," said Nancy. She led the way to a door set in the wall,
which when open showed a green glowing oblong of light that made Michael
catch his breath in wonder.

Then together he and Nancy sauntered through what was surely the
loveliest garden in the world. Michael could scarcely bear to speak, so
completely did it fulfil every faintest hope. All along the red walls
were apples and pears and plums and peaches; all along the paths were
masses of flowers, phloxes and early Michaelmas daisies and Japanese
anemones and sunflowers and red-hot pokers and dahlias. The air was so
golden and balmy that it seemed as though the sunlight must have been
locked up in this garden for years. At the bottom of the vivid path was
a stream with real fish swimming backwards and forwards, and beyond the
stream, safely guarded and therefore perfectly beautiful, were cows
stalking through a field beyond which was a dark wood beyond which was a
high hill with a grey tower on the top of it. Some princess must have
made this garden. He and Nancy turned and walked by the stream on which
was actually moored a punt, a joy for to-morrow, since, explained Nancy,
Maud had said they were not to go on the river this afternoon. How
wonderful it was, Michael thought, to hear his dearest Miss Carthew
called Maud. Never was spoken so sweet a name as Maud. He would say it
to himself in bed that night, and in the morning he would wake with Maud
calling to him from sleep. Then he and Nancy turned from the tempting
stream