A week slipped by.

We had grown familiar with Enderley Hill--at least I had.

As for John, he had little enough enjoyment of the pretty spot he had taken such a fancy to, being absent five days out of the seven; riding away when the morning sun had slid down to the boles of my four poplars, and never coming home till Venus peeped out over their heads at night.

It was hard for him; but he bore the disappointment well.
With me one day went by just like another.

In the mornings I crept out, climbed the hill behind Rose Cottage garden, and there lay a little under the verge of the Flat, in a sunny shelter, watching the ants running in and out of the numerous ant-hills there; or else I turned my observation to the short velvet herbage that grew everywhere hereabouts; for the common, so far from being barren, was a perfect sheet of greenest, softest turf, sowed with minute and rare flowers.
Often a square foot of ground presented me with enough of beauty and variety in colour and form to criticise and contemplate for a full hour.
My human interests were not extensive.