glistening all of clipped yew. Across the lawn-the steep woods besieged it on three sides stood an ancient house of lichened and weather-worn stone, with mullioned windows and roofs of rose-red tile. It was flanked by semi-circular walls, also rosered, that embraced the lawn on the fourth side, and at their feet a box hedge grew man-high. There were doves on the roof about the slim brick chimneys, and I caught a glimpse of an octagonal dove-house behind the screening wall.

Here, then, I stayed; the horseman's green spear laid at my breast, held by the exceeding beauty of that jewel in that setting. "If I am not packed off for a trespasser or if this knight does not ride a wallop at me," thought I, "Shakespeare and Queen Elizabeth at least will come out of that halfopen garden door and ask me to tea."

A child appeared at an upper window and I thought the little thing waved a friendly hand. But it was to call a companion, for presently another bright head showed. Then I heard a laugh among the yew-peacocks, and turning to make sure (till then I had been watching the house only) saw the silver of a fountain behind a hedge thrown up against the sun. The doves on the roof cooed to the cooing water, but between the two notes I caught the utterly happy chuckle of a child absorbed in some light mischief.

The garden door-of heavy oak sunk deep in the thickness of the wall-opened. A woman in a big garden-hat set her foot slowly on the hollowed stone step and as slowly walked across the turf. I was forming some sort of apology when she lifted up her head and I saw that she was blind. "I heard you," she said. "Isn't that a motor car?"

"I'm afraid I've made a mistake in my road. I should have turned off up aboveI never dreamed- I began.

"But I'm very glad. Fancy a motor car coming quite into the garden! It will be such a treat- She turned and made as though looking about her. "You--you haven't seen anyone, have you-perhaps?" "No one to speak to, but the children seemed interested at a distance."

"Oh, lucky you!" she cried, and her face brightened. "I hear them, of course, but that's all. You've seen them, and heard them too?"

"Yes," I answered. "And if I know anything of children one of them's having a beautiful time by the fountain yonder. Escaped, I should imagine."

You're fond of children?”

I gave her one or two reasons why I did not altogether hate them.

"Of course, of course," she said. “Then you understand. Then you won't think it foolish if I ask you to take your car through the gardens once or twice-quite slowly. I'm sure they'd like to see it. They see so little, poor things! One tries to make their life pleasant-but-” she threw out her hands towards the marshalled woods. "We're so out of the world here."

"That will be splendid," I said. “But I shall cut up your turf.”

She faced to the right. "Wait a minute,” she said. "We're at the South gate, aren't we? Behind those peacocks there's a flagged path. We call it the Peacocks' Walk. You can't see it from here, they tell me, but if you squeeze along by the edge of the wood you can turn at the first peacock and get on to the flags."

It was sacrilege to wake that dreaming housefront with the clatter of machinery, but I swung the car to clear the turf, brushed along the edge of the wood, and turned it in on the broad stone path where the fountain-basin lay like one star sapphire.

"May I come too?" she cried. "No, please don't help me. They'll like it better if they see me.

She felt her way lightly to the front of the car, and with one foot on the step called: "Children, oh, children! Look and see what's going to happen!"

The voice would have drawn lost souls from the Pit, for the yearning that underlay its sweetness, and I was not surprised to hear an answering shout behind the yews. It must have been the child by the fountain, but he fled at our approach, leaving a toy boat in the water. I saw the glint of his blue blouse among the still horsemen.

Very disposedly we paraded the length of the walk, and at her request backed again. This time the child had got the better of his panic, but stood, far off, and doubting.

I stopped the machine at once, and the humid stillness, heavy with the scent of box, cloaked us deep. Shears I could hear where some gardener was clipping; a mumble of bees and broken voices that might have been the doves.

"Ah, unkind!" she said weariedly. "Perhaps they're only shy of the motor. The little maid at the window looks tremendously interested."

"Yes?" She raised her head. "It was wrong of me to say that. They really are fond of me. It's the only thing that makes life worth living-when they're fond of you, isn't it? I daren't think what the place would be without them. By the way, is it beautiful?"

"I think it is the most beautiful place I have ever seen."

"So they all tell me. I can feel it, of course, but that isn't quite the same thing." "Then have you never- -?" I began, but stopped abashed.

"Not since I can remember. It happened when I was only a few months old, they tell me. And yet I must remember something. Else how could I dream about the colours? I see light in my dreams, but I never see them. I only hear them-just as I do when I'm awake.

"It's difficult to see faces in dreams. Some people can, but most of us haven't the gift," I went on idly, looking at the window where the child stood all but hidden.

"I've heard that too," she said. "And they tell me that one never sees a dead person's face in a dream. Is that true?" "I believe it is—now I come to think of it."

"But how is it with yourself—yourself?" The blind eyes turned cruelly towards me. "I have never seen the face of my dead in any dream," I answered.

"Then it must be as bad as being blind.". The sun had dipped behind the woods and the long shade was possessing the insolent horsemen one by one. I saw the light die off from the top of a glossy-leaved lance and all that brave, hard green turn to soft black. The house, accepting another day at end, as it had accepted an hundred

"Have you ever wanted to?" she said, after the silence.

"Very much sometimes, " I replied. The children had left the window and the shadow lay upon it.

'Ah, so 've I: but I don't suppose it's allowed. Where d' you live?" "Quite the other side of the countyfifty miles and more, and I must be going back. I've come without my big lamp.

"But it's not dark yet. I can feel it." "I'm afraid it will be by the time I get home. Could you lend me someone to set me on my road at first? I've utterly lost myself."

"I'll send Madden with you to the crossroads. We are so out of the world, I don't wonder you were lost. I'll take you round to the front of the house; but you will go slowly, won't you, till you're out of the grounds?"

"I promise you I'll go like this," I said, and let the car start herself down the flagged path.

We skirted the left wing of the house, whose elaborately castlead guttering alone was worth a day's journey to see; passed under a great rose-grown gate in the red wall, and so round to the high front of the house, which in beauty and stateliness as much excelled the back as that all others of its age I had ever visited.

"Is it so very beautiful?" she said wistfully, when she heard my raptures. "And you see the lead statues too? There's the old azalea garden behind. They say that this place must have been made for children. Will you help me out, please? I should like to come with you as far as the cross-roads, but I mustn't leave them. Is that you, Madden? I want you to show this gentleman the way to the cross-roads. He has lost his way, but he has seen them."

A butler appeared noiselessly at the miracle of old oak that must be called the front door, and slipped aside to put on his hat. She stood looking at me with open blue eyes in which no sight lay, and I saw for the first time that she was beautiful.

"Remember," she said quietly. "If you are fond of them you will come again," and disappeared within the house.

The butler in the car said nothing till we were nearly at the lodge gates, where, catch

"He runs about a good deal. Did you see him by the fountain, Sir?"

"Oh, yes, several times. Do we turn left here?"

"Yes, Sir. And did you 'appen to see them upstairs too?"

"At the upper window? Yes.” "Was that before the mistress come out to speak to you, Sir?"

"A little before that. Why d' you want to know?"

He paused a little. "Only to make sure that that they 'ad seen the car, Sir, because with children running about, though I'm sure you're driving particularly careful, there might be an accident. That was all, Sir. Here are the cross roads. You can't miss your way from now on. Thank you, Sir, but that isn't our custom, not with"I beg your pardon," I said, and thrust away the British silver.

graving attested. I carried my difficulty to a neighbour-a deep-rooted tree of our soil-and he gave me a name of a family which conveyed no meaning.

So

A month or so later-I went again, or it may have been that my car took the road of her own volition. She overran the fruitless Downs, threaded every turn of the maze of lanes below the hills, drew through the highwalled woods, impenetrable in their full leaf, came out at the cross-roads where the butler had left me, and a little farther on developed an internal trouble which forced me to turn her in on a grass way-waste that cut into a summer-silent hazel wood. far as I could make sure by the sun and a six-inch ordnance map, this should be the road flank of that wood which I had first explored from the heights above. I made a mighty serious business of my repairs and a glittering shop of my repair-kit, spanners, pump and the like, which I spread out orderly upon a rug. It was a trap to catch all childhood, for on such a day I argued the children would not be far off. When I paused in my work I listened, but the wood was so full of the noises of summer (though the birds had mated) that I could not at first distinguish these from the tread of small cautious feet stealing across the dead

He retired into the armour-plated conning tower of his castle and walked away. Evidently a butler solicitous for the honour of the house, and interested, probably through a maid, in the nursery.

Once beyond the signposts at the crossroads I looked back, but the wooded hills interlaced so jealously that I could not see where the house had lain. When I asked its name at a cottage along the road the fat woman who sold sweetmeats there gave me broadly to understand that people with motor cars had small right to live—much less to "go about talking like carriage-folk." They were not a pleasant-mannered community.

When I retraced my route on the map that evening I was little wiser. Hawkin's Old Farm appeared to be the Survey title of the place, and the old County gazetteer, generally so ample, did not allude to it. The big house of these parts was Hondington End, Georgian with early Victorian embellishments, as an atrocious steel-en

ner, but the feet fled and I repented; for to a child a sudden noise can be a very real terror. I must have been at work half an hour when I heard in the wood the voice of the blind woman crying: "Children! Oh, children, where are you?" and the stillness made slow to close on the perfection of that cry. She came towards me, half feeling her way between the tree-boles, and though a child it seemed clung to her skirt, it ran into the leafage like a rabbit as she drew nearer.

"Is that you?" she said. "From the other side of the county?”

"Yes. It's me-from the other side of the county."

"Then why didn't you come through the upper woods? They were there just now. Expecting you i u?" "They were here a few minutes ago. I fancy they knew my car had broken down, and came to see the fun." "Nothing serious, I hope? break down?"

"In fifty different ways. has chosen the fifty-first.

How do cars

Only, mine

She laughed at the tiny joke-cooed with delicious laughter and pushed her hat back. "Let me hear,” said she.

"Wait a moment," I cried, "and I'll get you a cushion.

She set her foot on the rug all covered with spare parts and stooped above it eagerly. "What delightful things!" The ringless hands through which she saw glanced in the chequered sunlight. “A box here another box! Why, you've arranged them like playing shop!"

"I confess now that I put it out to attract them. I don't need half those things really."

"How nice of you! I heard your bell in upper wood. You say they were here before that?"

the

"It must have been your bell," she said. "I heard one of them go past me in trouble when I was coming down. They're shy so shy, even with me. She turned her face over her shoulder and cried again: Children! Oh, children! Look and see!" "They must have gone off together on their own affairs," I suggested, for there was a murmur in the wood of lowered voices broken by the sudden squeaking giggles of childhood. Ireturned to my tinkerings and she leaned forward, her chin on her hand, litsening interestedly.

"How many are they?" I said at last. The work was finished, but I saw no reason

It hurts: and when one can't see I don't want to seem silly"—her chin quivered like a child's as she spoke—" but we blindies have only one skin, I think. Everything outside hits straight at our souls. It's different with you. You've such good defences in your eyes-looking out-before anyone can really pain you in your soul. People forget that with us." I was silent, reviewing that inexhaustible matter, the more than inherited (since it is also carefully taught) brutality of the Christian peoples, beside which the mere heathendom of the West Coast nigger is cleanly restraint. It led me a long distance into myself.

"Don't do that," she said of a sudden, putting her hands before her eyes. "What?"

She made a gesture with her hand. "That! It's-it's all purple and black. Don't! Those colours hurt."

"But how in the world do you know about colours," I exclaimed, for here was a revelation indeed.

Colours as colours?" she asked. "No, those colours which you saw just now.'

"You know as well as I do," she laughed, "else you wouldn't have asked that question. They aren't in the world at all. They're in you-when you went so angry."

"D' you mean a dull purplish patch, like port wine mixed with ink?” I said.

"I've never seen ink or port wine, but the colours aren't mixed. They are separateall broken."

"Do you mean black streaks and jags across the purple?"

She nodded. "Yes-like this," and zigzagged her finger again; "but it's more what is called red than purple-that bad colour -to me."

"And what are the colours at the top of the-the picture as you see it?"

Slowly she leaned forward and traced on the rug the figure of the Egg Itself.

"I see them so," she said, pointing with a grass stem. "White, green, yellow, red, purple, and when people are angry or bad, black across the red-as you were just now.

"Who told you anything about it—in the beginning?" I demanded.

"About those Colours? No one. I used to ask what colours were called when I was