They had arrived by this time at a point high on the downs. The
rough white road, full of flints, had taken them up by deep-hedged
cuttings, through coverts where the spring flowers were just
beginning to show in the undergrowth, and out on to the smooth turf
of the downs. They were near the top now, and they could see right
down into Windlow Malzoy, lying like a map beneath them; the top of
the Church tower, its leaden roof, the roofs of the Vicarage, the
little straggling street among its orchards and gardens; farther
off, up the valley, they could see the Manor in its gardens; beyond
the opposite ridge, a far-off view of great richness spread itself
in a belt of dark-blue colour. It was a still day; on the left hand
there was a great smooth valley-head, with a wood of beeches, and
ploughed fields in the bottom. They directed their steps to an old
turfed barrow, with a few gnarled thorn trees, wind-swept and
stunted round it.

"I love this place," said Maud; "it has a nice name, the 'Isle of
Thorns.' I suppose it is a burial-place--some old chief, papa says--
and he is always threatening to have him dug up; but I don't want
to disturb him! He must have had a reason for being buried here,
and I suppose there were people who missed him, and were sorry to
lay him here, and wondered where he had gone. I am sure there is a
sad old story about it; and yet it makes one happy in a curious way
to think about it all."

"Yes," said Howard, "'the old, unhappy, far-off things,' that turn
themselves into songs and stories! That is another puzzle; one's
own sorrows and tragedies, would one like to think of them as being
made into songs for other people to enjoy? I suppose we ought to be
glad of it; but there does not seem anything poetical about them at