No one ever called upon Mr. Peak, but he was often from home for many hours together, probably on visits to great people in city or country.  It seemed rather strange, however, that the postman so seldom brought anything for him.  Though he had now been more than two months in the house, he had received only three letters, and those at long intervals.

Noticeable was the improvement in his health since his arrival here.  The pallor of his cheeks was giving place to a wholesome tinge; his eye was brighter; he showed more disposition to converse, and was readier with pleasant smiles.  Mrs. Roots even heard him singing in his bedroom—­though, oddly enough, it was a secular song on Sunday morning.  The weekly bills for food, which at first had been very modest, grew richer in items.  Godwin had, in fact, never felt so well.  He extended his walks in every direction, sometimes rambling up the valley to sleepy little towns where he could rest in the parlours of old inns, sometimes striking across country to this or that point of the sea-coast, or making his way to the nearer summits of Dartmoor, noble in their wintry desolation.  He marked with delight every promise of returning spring.  When he could only grant himself a walk of an hour or two in the sunny afternoon, there was many a deep lane within easy reach, where the gorse gleamed in masses of gold, and the little oak-trees in the hedges were ruddy with last year’s clinging leafage, and catkins hung from the hazels, and the fresh green of sprouting ivy crept over bank and wall.  Had he now been in London, the morning would have awakened him to the glow of sunrise, he felt the sweet air breathing health into fog and slush and misery.  As it was, when he looked out upon his frame and vigour into his mind.  There were moments when he could all but say of himself that he was at peace with the world.

As on a morning towards the end of March, when a wind from the Atlantic swept spaces of brightest blue amid the speeding clouds, and sang joyously as it rushed over hill and dale.  It was the very day for an upland walk, for a putting forth of one’s strength in conflict with boisterous gusts and sudden showers, that give a taste of earth’s nourishment.  But Godwin had something else in view.  After breakfast, he sat down to finish a piece of work which had occupied him for two or three days, a translation from a German periodical.  His mind wrought easily, and he often hummed an air as his pen moved over the paper.  When the task was completed, he rolled his papers and the pamphlet together, put them into the pocket of his overcoat, and presently went forth.

Twenty minutes’ walk brought him to the Warricombes’ house.  It was his second call within the present week, but such assiduity had not hitherto been his wont.  Though already summoned twice or thrice by express invitation, he was sparing of voluntary visits.  Having asked for Mr. Warricombe, he was forthwith conducted to the study.  In the welcome which greeted his appearance, he could detect no suspicion of simulated warmth, though his ear had unsurpassable discrimination.