II. Night—The Flock—An Interior—Another Interior

           

           ItwasnearlymidnightontheeveofSt.Thomas’s,theshortestdayintheyear.AdesolatingwindwanderedfromthenorthoverthehillwhereonOakhadwatchedtheyellowwaggonanditsoccupantinthesunshineofafewdaysearlier.

           NorcombeHill—notfarfromlonelyToller-Down—wasoneofthespotswhichsuggesttoapasser-bythatheisinthepresenceofashapeapproachingtheindestructibleasnearlyasanytobefoundonearth.Itwasafeaturelessconvexityofchalkandsoil—anordinaryspecimenofthosesmoothly-outlinedprotuberancesoftheglobewhichmayremainundisturbedonsomegreatdayofconfusion,whenfargranderheightsanddizzygraniteprecipicestoppledown.

           Thehillwascoveredonitsnorthernsidebyanancientanddecayingplantationofbeeches,whoseuppervergeformedalineoverthecrest,fringingitsarchedcurveagainstthesky,likeamane.To-nightthesetreesshelteredthesouthernslopefromthekeenestblasts,whichsmotethewoodandflounderedthroughitwithasoundasofgrumbling,orgushedoveritscrowningboughsinaweakenedmoan.Thedryleavesintheditchsimmeredandboiledinthesamebreezes,atongueofairoccasionallyferretingoutafew,andsendingthemspinningacrossthegrass.Agrouportwoofthelatestindateamongstthedeadmultitudehadremainedtillthisverymid-wintertimeonthetwigswhichborethemandinfallingrattledagainstthetrunkswithsmarttaps.

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