“Enterprise and effort,” he would say to us (on his back), “are delightful to me.  I believe I am truly cosmopolitan.  I have the deepest sympathy with them.  I lie in a shady place like this and think of adventurous spirits going to the North Pole or penetrating to the heart of the Torrid Zone with admiration.  Mercenary creatures ask, ’What is the use of a man’s going to the North Pole?  What good does it do?’ I can’t say; but, for anything I can say, he may go for the purpose—­though he don’t know it—­of employing my thoughts as I lie here.  Take an extreme case.  Take the case of the slaves on American plantations.  I dare say they are worked hard, I dare say they don’t altogether like it.  I dare say theirs is an unpleasant experience on the whole; but they people the landscape for me, they give it a poetry for me, and perhaps that is one of the pleasanter objects of their existence.  I am very sensible of it, if it be, and I shouldn’t wonder if it were!”

I always wondered on these occasions whether he ever thought of Mrs. Skimpole and the children, and in what point of view they presented themselves to his cosmopolitan mind.  So far as I could understand, they rarely presented themselves at all.

The week had gone round to the Saturday following that beating of my heart in the church; and every day had been so bright and blue that to ramble in the woods, and to see the light striking down among the transparent leaves and sparkling in the beautiful interlacings of the shadows of the trees, while the birds poured out their songs and the air was drowsy with the hum of insects, had been most delightful.  We had one favourite spot, deep in moss and last year’s leaves, where there were some felled trees from which the bark was all stripped off.  Seated among these, we looked through a green vista supported by thousands of natural columns, the whitened stems of trees, upon a distant prospect made so radiant by its contrast with the shade in which we sat and made so precious by the arched perspective through which we saw it that it was like a glimpse of the better land.  Upon the Saturday we sat here, Mr. Jarndyce, Ada, and I, until we heard thunder muttering in the distance and felt the large raindrops rattle through the leaves.

The weather had been all the week extremely sultry, but the storm broke so suddenly—­upon us, at least, in that sheltered spot—­that before we reached the outskirts of the wood the thunder and lightning were frequent and the rain came plunging through the leaves as if every drop were a great leaden bead.  As it was not a time for standing among trees, we ran out of the wood, and up and down the moss-grown steps which crossed the plantation-fence like two broad-staved ladders placed back to back, and made for a keeper’s lodge which was close at hand.  We had often noticed the dark beauty of this lodge standing in a deep twilight of trees, and how the ivy clustered over it, and how there was a steep hollow near, where we had once seen the keeper’s dog dive down into the fern as if it were water.