When we had crossed the river and began to climb the hill I knew that I _hated_ the Forest.

It was looking beautiful under the early morning sun, its green so delicate and clear, its soft shadows so cool, its birds singing so carelessly, the silver birches, lines of light against the dark spaces; but this was all to me now as though it had been arranged by some ironic hand.

It knew well enough who had died there yesterday and it was preparing now, behind its black recesses, a rich harvest for its malicious spirit.

We passed through the cholera village and reached the white house of yesterday at about ten o'clock.

As we clattered up to the door I for a moment closed my eyes.