They sat and gazed in silence, listening to the indistinct rustle of nocturnal life in the wood behind them, and the air above: a rustle of leaves, a faint crackle of twigs, a little scream, and some woodland tragedy was past and gone, some tiny life was sped.
An owl hooted above them many times, long-drawn, awe-inspiring, suited to the night.
"That's a brown owl," she said.
"How do you know it's not a barn owl?" he asked.
She looked at him in wonder. "Why! it's a different tune."
"Tune?" he repeated, in amusement. "I didn't know there was any difference," he added, apologetically.
"Listen!" she commanded, holding his arm suddenly. There was a flutter of wings in a tree not far away, a little agonized scream, then all was silent. "That's a weasel, or a stoat got a bird," she explained.
"Weasels don't climb trees," he said.
"Don't they?" she asked, in amused sarcasm.
"I didn't know," he admitted, meekly.