Part 6
THE WOOD OF THE DEAD
One summer, in my wanderings with a knapsack, I was at luncheon
in the room of a wayside inn in the western country, when the door
opened and there entered an old rustic, who crossed close to my end
of the table and sat himself down very quietly in the seat by the
bow window. We exchanged glances, or, properly speaking, nods, for
at the moment I did not actually raise my eyes to his face, so
concerned was I with the important business of satisfying an
appetite gained by tramping twelve miles over a difficult
country.
The fine warm rain of seven o'clock, which had since risen in a
kind of luminous mist about the tree tops, now floated far overhead
in a deep blue sky, and the day was settling down into a blaze of
golden light. It was one of those day
