_A Couple of Hours from Mr. Welles' New Life_.


I

April 10.

One of the many things which surprised Mr. Welles was that he seemed to
need less sleep than in the city. Long hours in bed had been one of the
longed-for elements of the haven of rest which his retiring from the
office was to be. Especially as he had dragged himself from bed to stop
the relentless snarl of his alarm-clock, had he hoped for late morning
sleeps in his new home, when he could wake up at seven, feel himself
still heavy, unrefreshed, unready for the day, and turn on the pillow to
take another dose of oblivion.

But here, after the first ten days of almost prostrate relaxation, he
found himself waking even before the dawn, and lying awake in his bed,
waiting almost impatiently for the light to come so that he could rise
to another day. He learned all the sounds of the late night and early
morning, and how they had different voices in the dark; the faint
whisper of the maple-branches, the occasional stir and muffled chirp of
a bird, the hushed, secret murmur of the little brook which ran between
his garden and the Crittenden yard, and the distant, deeper note of the
Necronsett River as it rolled down the Ashley valley to The Notch. He
could almost tell, without opening his eyes, when the sky grew light
over the Eagle Rocks, by the way the night voices lifted, and carried
their sweet, muted notes up to a clearer, brighter singing.