here. Swallows in great numbers flew about the edge, and
thistle-down floated everywhere. From the fields came a tinkle of
sheep-bells.

The pedestrian sighed when he rose to continue his progress. It was
noticeable that, as he went on, he lost something of his cheerfulness
of manner; probably the early rising and the first taste of exercise
had had their effect upon him, and now he was returning to his more
wonted self. The autumn air, the sun-stained mist, the silent sea,
would naturally incline to pensiveness one who knew that mood.

The air was unimaginably calm; the thistle-down gave proof that only
the faintest breath was stirring. On the Downs beyond Rottingdean lay
two or three bird-catchers, prone as they watched the semicircle of
call-birds in cages, and held their hand on the string which closed the
nets. The young man spoke a few words with one of these, curious about
his craft.

He came down upon Newhaven, and halted in the town for refreshment;
then, having loitered a little to look at the shipping, he climbed the
opposite side of the valley, and made his way as far as Seaford. Thence
another climb, and a bend inland, for the next indentation of the coast
was Cuckmere Haven, and the water could only be crossed at some
distance from the sea. The country through which the Cuckmere flowed
had a melancholy picturesqueness. It was a great reach of level
meadows, very marshy, with red-brown rushes growing in every ditch, and
low trees in places, their trunks wrapped in bright yellow lichen; nor
only their trunks, but the very smallest of their twigs was so clad.
All over the flats were cows pasturing, black cows, contrasting with
flocks of white sheep, which were gathered together, bleating. The
coarse grass was sun-scorched; the slope of the Downs on either side
showed the customary chalky green. The mist had now all but dispersed,
yet there was still only blurred sunshine. Rooks hovered beneath the
sky, heavily, lazily, and uttered their long caws.

The Cuckmere was crossed, and another ascent began. The sea was now
hidden; the road would run inland, cutting off the great angle made by
Beachy Head. The pedestrian had made notes of his track; he knew that
he was now approaching a village called West Dean. He had lingered by
the Cuckmere; now he braced himself. And he came in sight of West Dean
as the church clock struck four.

He wished now to make speed to Eastbourne, but the loveliness of the
hollow abo