it. Don't look so amazed,
Jonathan. Most fellows seem to make awful muddles of their lives. You
won't, of course. I see you on pinnacles, but I----" He broke off
with a mirthless laugh.

John waited. The air about them was soft and moist after a recent
shower. The south-west wind stirred the pulses. Earth was once more
tumid, about to bring forth. Already the hedges were green under the
brown; bulbs were pushing delicate spears through the sweet-smelling
soil; the buds upon a clump of fine beeches had begun to open. In this
solitude, alone with teeming nature, John tried to interpret his
friend's mood; but the spirit of melancholy eluded him, as if it were a
will-o'-the-wisp dancing over an impassable marsh. Suddenly, there
came to him, as there had come to the quicker imagination of his
friend, the overpowering mystery of Spring, the sense of inevitable
change, the impossibility of arresting it. At the moment all things
seemed unsubstantial. Even the familiar Spire, powdered with gold by
the slanting rays of the sun, appeared thinly transparent against the
rosy mists behind it. The Hill, the solid Hill, rose out of the
valley, a lavender-coloured shade upon the horizon.

"He came here," continued Desmond, dreamily--John guessed that he was
speaking of the father--"a rich, prosperous man. I dare say he worked
like a slave in the city. And he wanted peace and quiet after the
Stock Exchange. Who wouldn't? And he planted out these gardens,
thinking that every plant would grow up and thrive, and his son with
them. And then the boy died; and the wife followed; and the enchanted
castle became a place of horror; and now it is a wilderness. Haunted?
I should think it was--haunted! I wish we'd never set foot in it.
There's a curse on it."

"Let's go," said John.

"Too late. We'll stay now, and we'll come again, every Sunday. Wild
and desolate as things look, they will be lovely when we get back in
summer. Don't talk. I'm going to light a pipe."

Through the circling cloud of tobacco-smoke John stared at the face
which had illumined nearly every hour of his school-life. Its peculiar
vividness always amazed John, the vitality of It, and yet the perfect
delicacy. Scaife's handsome features were full of vitality also, but
coarseness underlay their bold lines and peered out of the keen,
flashing eyes. When the Caterpillar left Harrow he had said to John--

"Good-bye, Jonathan. Awful rot your going