And an ache for lost
youth, a hankering, a sense of wasted love and sweetness, gripped
Ashurst by the throat. Surely, on this earth of such wild beauty, one
was meant to hold rapture to one's heart, as this earth and sky held it!
And yet, one could not!
He went to the edge of the stream, and looking down at the little pool,
thought: 'Youth and spring! What has become of them all, I wonder?'
And then, in sudden fear of having this memory jarred by human
encounter, he went back to the lane, and pensively retraced his steps to
the crossroads.
Beside the car an old, grey-bearded labourer was leaning on a stick,
talking to the chauffeur. He broke off at once, as though guilty of
disrespect, and touching his hat, prepared to limp on down the lane.
Ashurst pointed to the narrow green mound. "Can you tell me what this
is?"
The old fellow stopped; on his face had come a look as though he were
thinking: 'You've come to the right shop, mister!'
"'Tes a grave," he said.
"But why out here?"
The old man smiled. "That's a tale, as yu may say. An' not the first
time as I've a-told et--there's plenty folks asks 'bout that bit o'
turf. 'Maid's Grave' us calls et, 'ereabouts.
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