rabbit; but when he tried, no nice feeling came, and flinging the things down he went out.  He ran along the unweeded path to the tennis ground—­lawn tennis was then just coming in.  The grass looked very rough.  But then, everything about that little manor house was left rather wild and anyhow; why, nobody quite knew, and nobody seemed to mind.  He stood there scrutinizing the condition of the ground.  A sound of humming came to his ears.  He got up on the wall.  There was Sylvia sitting in the field, making a wreath of honeysuckle.  He stood very quiet and listened.  She looked pretty—­lost in her tune.  Then he slid down off the wall, and said gently: 

“Hallo!”

She looked round at him, her eyes very wide open.

“Your voice is jolly, Sylvia!”

“Oh, no!”

“It is.  Come and climb a tree!”

“Where?”

“In the park, of course.”

They were some time selecting the tree, many being too easy for him, and many too hard for her; but one was found at last, an oak of great age, and frequented by rooks.  Then, insisting that she must be roped to him, he departed to the house for some blind-cord.  The climb began at four o’clock—­named by him the ascent of the Cimone della Pala.  He led the momentous expedition, taking a hitch of the blind-cord round a branch before he permitted her to move.  Two or three times he was obliged to make the cord fast and return to help her, for she was not an ‘expert’; her arms seemed soft, and she was inclined to straddle instead of trusting to one foot.  But at last they were settled, streaked indeed with moss, on the top branch but two.  They rested there, silent, listening to the rooks soothing an outraged dignity.  Save for this slowly subsiding demonstration it was marvellously peaceful and remote up there, half-way to a blue sky thinly veiled from them by the crinkled brown-green leaves.  The peculiar dry mossy smell of an oak-tree was disturbed into the air by the least motion of their feet or hands against the bark.  They could hardly see the ground, and all around, other gnarled trees barred off any view.

He said: 

“If we stay up here till it’s dark we might see owls.”

“Oh, no!  Owls are horrible!”

“What!  They’re lovely—­especially the white ones.”

“I can’t stand their eyes, and they squeak so when they’re hunting.”

“Oh! but that’s so jolly, and their eyes are beautiful.”

“They’re always catching mice and little chickens; all sorts of little things.”

“But they don’t mean to; they only want them to eat.  Don’t you think things are jolliest at night?”

She slipped her arm in his.

“No; I don’t like the dark.”

“Why not?  It’s splendid—­when things get mysterious.”  He dwelt lovingly on that word.

“I don’t like mysterious things.  They frighten you.”

“Oh, Sylvia!”