harped to the muffled roar of sound that came from within.

All his means of livelihood were joys to him. He had the art of
perpetual happiness in this, that he could earn as much as he needed by
doing the work he loved. He played at flower shows and country dances,
revivals and weddings. He sold his honey, and sometimes his bees. He
delighted in wreath-making, gardening, and carpentering, and always in
the background was his music--some new air to try on the gilded harp,
some new chord or turn to master. The garden was almost big enough, and
quite beautiful enough, for that of a mansion. In the summer white
lilies haunted it, standing out in the dusk with their demure cajolery,
looking, as Hazel said, like ghosses. Goldenrod foamed round the
cottage, deeply embowering it, and lavender made a grey mist beside the
red quarries of the path. Then Hazel sat like a queen in a regalia of
flowers, eating the piece of bread and honey that made her dinner, and
covering her face with lily pollen.

Now, there were no flowers in the garden; only the yew-tree by the gate
that hung her waxen blossom along the undersides of the branches. Hazel
hated the look of the frozen garden; she had an almost unnaturally
intense craving for everything rich, vivid, and vital. She was all
these things herself, as she communed with Foxy before starting. She
had wound her hair round her head in a large plait and her old black
hat made the colour richer.

'You'm nigh on thirty miles to go there and back, unless you get a
lift,' said Abel.

'A lift? I dunna want never no lifts!' said Hazel scornfully.