Swithin St. Cleeve lingered on at his post, until the more sanguine birds
of the plantation, already recovering from their midwinter anxieties,
piped a short evening hymn to the vanishing sun.

The landscape was gently concave; with the exception of tower and hill
there were no points on which late rays might linger; and hence the dish-
shaped ninety acres of tilled land assumed a uniform hue of shade quite
suddenly. The one or two stars that appeared were quickly clouded over,
and it was soon obvious that there would be no sweeping the heavens that
night. After tying a piece of tarpaulin, which had once seen service on
his maternal grandfather's farm, over all the apparatus around him, he
went down the stairs in the dark, and locked the door.

With the key in his pocket he descended through the underwood on the side
of the slope opposite to that trodden by Lady Constantine, and crossed
the field in a line mathematically straight, and in a manner that left no
traces, by keeping in the same furrow all the way on tiptoe. In a few
minutes he reached a little dell, which occurred quite unexpectedly on
the other side of the field-fence, and descended to a venerable thatched
house, whose enormous roof, broken up by dormers as big as haycocks,
could be seen even in the twilight. Over the white walls, built of chalk
in the lump, outlines of creepers formed dark patterns, as if drawn in
charcoal.