One day I had the whim to creep again within the little glade where
Anthony Cardew had come to my help. It was now all hung about with wild
roses and woodbine and was very sweet, and far overhead the trees met in
a light, springing roof of green, more beautiful than any cathedral.
It had grown dark, and as I stood in the glade the rain pattered on the
leaves overhead, but not a drop reached me. There were harebells and
saxifrage in the moss, and underneath the bushes there was scented
woodruff, and there was also sweet wild thyme. I thought I would make a
summer drawing-room of the place, which none should know of beside
myself, and should bring my books there and my needlework and
embroidery, and spend long hours there alone or with a dog's
companionship which is better than solitude.
The shower passed away over the hills, and the sun shone out. It
sparkled here and there where a raindrop hung on a leaf and it suffused
the glade with a warm, golden glow.
Suddenly something sparkled that was not a raindrop, something in the
moss and undergrowth at the entrance to the glade. I wondered I had not
seen it before, but it was the first time I had entered the glade since
Anthony Cardew had been there.
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