I hurry away to the orchard, and sit down under the very same tree where Jack and I sat so many years ago with our beasts and birds all about us. I wonder if the time seems as long to him as it does to me, or if I look as old as I feel? (Jack's ridiculous old question of whether I would rather be a bigger fool than I look, or look a bigger fool than I am, here comes into my mind, and provokes a smile.) Twenty-two next birthday is a considerable age; but, perhaps, if I were happy, it would not seem so much. How the bees are humming and buzzing all about the trees, as though they smelt the pink and white buds that are forcing their way through the dull brown boughs! How carelessly the birds are singing! O bees! O birds! can you not give me a little of your light-heartedness, your forgetfulness? You have hardships, no doubt, but you do not seem to be able to remember. . . . God does well to make your memories blank ones.
I leave my place and saunter along to a belt of trees that girdles round a dark, sullen pool, set with dank weeds, and ugly henbane and nightshade lying in the far corner of the orchard. It is, in fact, an outlet to the meadows beyond, for behind the pool rises a low stone wall with a stile. I do not often come this way, for I hate the spot, and yet it fascinates me, and I pause to look down into the sluggish depths. A sudden tongue of sunlight pierces the close-set trees, and trembles on the black water, and in the momentary illumination I see strange, loathsome, misshapen horrors, that writhe, and turn, and wriggle away into dark corners. This pool typifies to me a foul heart that conceals many an ugly secret, and slinks away from the light that reveals its deformity.
A step behind me makes me lift my eyes from its black surface, and there, on the other side of the wall, stands Paul Vasher. I had meant to put out a cool, friendly hand to him so easily (if ever we met), looked at him with such careless, friendly eyes, and said, "How do you do?" to him so glibly. Why then do I stand
