As we went up the drive (so familiar to me and poor little Rubens!) I thought I had never seen the Rector's garden in richer beauty, or heard such a chorus from the birds he loved and protected. Indeed the border plants were luxuriant almost to disorder. It struck me that Mr. Andrewes had not been gardening for some time. Perhaps this idea led me to notice how ill he looked when I went indoors. But dinner seemed to revive him, and then in the warm summer sunset we strolled outside again. The Rector leant heavily on my arm. He made some joke about my height, I remember. (I was proud of having grown so tall, and secretly thought well of my general appearance in the tail-coat of "fifth form.") With one arm I supported Mr. Andrewes, the other hung at my side, into the hand of which Sweep ever and anon thrust his nose caressingly.
"How well the garden looks!" I said. "And your birds are giving you a farewell concert."
"Ah! You think so too?" said the Rector, quickly.
I was puzzled. "You are going to-morrow, are you not?" I said.
"Yes, of course. I see," said the Rector laughing. "I was thinking of a longer journey. How superstitions do cling to north-countrymen! We've a terrible lot of Paganism in us yet, for all the Christians that we are!"
"What was your superstition just now?" said I.
"Oh, just part of a belief in the occult sympathy of the animal world with humanity, which, indeed, I am by no means prepared to give up."
"I should think not!" said I.
"Though doubtless the idea that they feel and presage impending death to man must be counted a fable."
"Awful rot!" was my comment. "I say, sir, I'm sure you're not well, to get such stuff into your head."