The bells are still ringing, and I am wandering through the little Copse
on the right of the farm. This wood, or plantation rather flourishes
down hill, fills up the narrow, interlying valley, and courageously
climbs the eminence beyond. As I descend, it become more and more
sheltered. The wind dies away and the church bells are heard no longer.
I am following a cart-track used by the woodcutters. It is particularly
bad walking. The last cart must have passed through in soft weather, the
ruts are cut so deep, and these are filled with water from the last
rains. The new buds are but just "exploding" into leaf; here and there
the Dryades have laid down a carpet of white anemone flowers to dance
on; trailing brambles lie across the track, with October's bronze and
purple-green leaves, still hale and hearty, making an exquisite
contrast with the young, brilliant, fan-folded shoots just springing at
their base.
I will find an opportunity to speak to Annie this very afternoon. She is
likely to be less busy to-day than at other times. I need not trouble
much as to how I shall tell her. She is sure to listen to me in a sweet,
bewildered silence.
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