into this gives the previous time a charm of stillness--
that hush in which something gathers or crouches.
The change was actually like the spring of a beast.

In the first weeks the days were long; they often, at their finest,
gave me what I used to call my own hour, the hour when, for my pupils,
teatime and bedtime having come and gone, I had, before my final retirement,
a small interval alone. Much as I liked my companions, this hour was
the thing in the day I liked most; and I liked it best of all when,
as the light faded--or rather, I should say, the day lingered and the last
calls of the last birds sounded, in a flushed sky, from the old trees--
I could take a turn into the grounds and enjoy, almost with a sense
of property that amused and flattered me, the beauty and dignity of
the place. It was a pleasure at these moments to feel myself tranquil
and justified; doubtless, perhaps, also to reflect that by my discretion,
my quiet good sense and general high propriety, I was giving pleasure--
if he ever thought of it!--to the person to whose pressure I had responded.
What I was doing was what he had earnestly hoped and directly asked of me,
and that I COULD, after all, do it proved even a greater joy than I
had expected. I daresay I fancied myself, in short, a remarkable young
woman and took comfort in the faith that this would more publicly appear.
Well, I needed to be remarkable to offer a front to the remarkable things
that presently gave their first sign.

It was plump, one afternoon, in the middle of my very hour:
the children were tucked away, and I had come out for my stroll.
One of the thoughts that, as I don't in the least shrink now
from noting, used to be with me in these wanderings was that it
would be as charming as a charming story suddenly to meet someone.
Someone would appear there at the turn of a path and would stand