He was at the cross-roads. Here he had met Kate
Heaver, here he had shamed his neighbours--and begun his work in life. He
stood for a moment, smiling, as he looked at the stone where he had sat
those years ago, his hand feeling instinctively for his flute. Presently
he turned to the dusty road again.
Walking quickly away, he swung into the path of the wood which would
bring him by a short cut to Hamley, past Soolsby's cottage. Here was the
old peace, the old joy of solitude among the healing trees. Experience
had broadened his life, had given him a vast theatre of work; but the
smell of the woods, the touch of the turf, the whispering of the trees,
the song of the birds, had the ancient entry to his heart.
At last he emerged on the hill where Soolsby lived. He had not meant, if
he could help it, to speak to any one until he had entered the garden of
the Red Mansion, but he had inadvertently come upon this place where he
had spent the most momentous days of his life, and a feeling stronger
than he cared to resist drew him to the open doorway.
Pages:
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369