sight of it I almost shouted. I don't very often dream but when I
do that's the place I frequent. Odd, isn't it?"

Mr. McCunn was deeply interested at this unexpected revelation of
romance. "Maybe it's being in love," he daringly observed.

The Poet demurred. "No. I'm not a connoisseur of obvious sentiment.
That explanation might fit your case, but not mine. I'm pretty
certain there's something hideous at the back of MY complex--some grim
old business tucked away back in the ages. For though I'm attracted by
the place, I'm frightened too!"

There seemed no room for fear in the delicate landscape now opening
before them. In front, in groves of birch and rowan, smoked the first
houses of a tiny village. The road had become a green "loaning," on
the ample margin of which cattle grazed. The moorland still showed
itself in spits of heather, and some distance off, where a rivulet
ran in a hollow, there were signs of a fire and figures near it.
These last Mr. Heritage regarded with disapproval.

"Some infernal trippers!" he murmured. "Or Boy Scouts.
They desecrate everything. Why can't the TUNICATUS POPELLUS keep
away from a paradise like this!" Dickson, a democrat who felt
nothing incongruous in the presence of other holiday-makers, was
meditating a sharp rejoinder, when Mr. Heritage's tone changed.

"Ye gods! What a village!" he cried, as they turned a corner.
There were not more than a dozen whitewashed houses, all set in
little gardens of wallflower and daffodil and early fruit blossom.
A triangle of green filled the intervening space, and in it stood an