Wild weeds of the hedgerow straggled into the flower-garden,
and wallflowers and garden bushes made counter-raids into
farmyard and lane. Sleepy-looking hens and solemn
preoccupied ducks were equally at home in yard, orchard, or
roadway; nothing seemed to belong definitely to anywhere;
even the gates were not necessarily to be found on their
hinges. And over the whole scene brooded the sense of a
peace that had almost a quality of magic in it. In the
afternoon you felt that it had always been afternoon, and
must always remain afternoon; in the twilight you knew that
it could never have been anything else but twilight.
Crefton Cockyer sat at his ease in the rustic seat beneath
an old medlar tree, and decided that here was the
life-anchorage that his mind had so fondly pictured and that
latterly his tired and jarred senses had so often pined for.
He would make a permanent lodging-place among these simple
friendly people, gradually increasing the modest comforts
with which he would like to surround himself, but falling in
as much as possible with their manner of living.
As he slowly matured this resolution in his mind an
elderly woman came hobbling with uncertain gait through the
orchard.
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