Then suddenly, at a turn, the ground sank into a deep hollow, where in spring the eye rested with relief and pleasure on the tops of young firs, acre after acre, just freshly tinted with the most delicate green.

From thence the track went into the wood.
By day all through the summer months there was always something to be seen in the lane--a squirrel, a stoat; always a song-bird to listen to, a flower or fern to gather.

By night the goatsucker visited it, and the bat, and the white owl gliding down the slope.

In winter when the clouds hung low the darkness in the hollow between the high banks, where the light was shut out by the fir trees, was like that of a cavern.

It was then that night after night a strange procession wended down it.
First came an old man, walking stiffly--not so much from age as rheumatism--and helping his unsteady steps on the slippery sarsen stones with a stout ground-ash staff.