There is a clump
of trees growing all alone in the wold, desolate, mournful, by day, by
night full of ill omen, far off from all other trees as wold-hut from
other houses. Near it stands wold-hut. Not today did Amuel stride
briskly on with all the new winds of autumn blowing cheerily past him
till he saw the village before him and broke into song; but as soon as
he was out of sight of the house he turned and stooping behind a fold
of the ground ran back to the desolate wood. There he waited watching
the evil house, just too far to hear voices. The sun was low already.
He chose the window at which he meant to eavesdrop, a little barred
one at the back, close to the ground. And then the pigeons came in;
for a great distance there was no other wood, so numbers shelter
there, though the clump is small and of so evil a look (if they notice
that); the first one frightened Amuel, he felt that it might be a
spirit escaped from torture in some dim parlour of the house that he
watched, his nerves were strained and he feared foolish fears. Then
he grew used to them and the sun set then and the aspect of everything
altered and he felt strange fears again. Behind him was a hollow in
the wold, he watched it darkening; and before him he saw the house
through the trunks of the trees. He waited for them to light their
lamps so that they could not see, when he would steal up softly and
crouch by the little back window.
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