They had crossed the road dividing the Gardens from the Park, and,
seeing that Mr. Stone had already seen the water where he was about to
bathe, and would now see nothing else, Hilary stopped beside a little
lonely birch-tree. This wild, small, graceful visitor, who had long
bathed in winter, was already draping her bare limbs in a scarf of
green. Hilary leaned against her cool, pearly body. Below were the
chilly waters, now grey, now starch-blue, and the pale forms of fifteen
or twenty bathers. While he stood shivering in the frozen wind, the
sun, bursting through the hail-cloud, burned his cheeks and hands. And
suddenly he heard, clear, but far off, the sound which, of all others,
stirs the hearts of men: "Cuckoo, cuckoo!"

Four times over came the unexpected call. Whence had that ill-advised,
indelicate grey bird flown into this great haunt of men and shadows? Why
had it come with its arrowy flight and mocking cry to pierce the heart
and set it aching? There were trees enough outside the town, cloud-swept
hollows, tangled brakes of furze just coming into bloom, where it could
preside over the process of Spring. What solemn freak was this which
made it come and sing to one who had no longer any business with the
Spring?

With a real spasm in his heart Hilary turned away from that distant
bird, and went down to the water's edge. Mr. Stone was swimming, slower
than man had ever swum before. His silver head and lean arms alone were
visible, parting the water feebly; suddenly he disappeared. He was but
a dozen yards from the shore; and Hilary, alarmed at not seeing him
reappear, ran in. The water was not deep. Mr. Stone, seated at
the bottom, was doing all he could to rise. Hilary took him by his
bathing-dress, raised him to the surface, and supported him towards
the land. By the time they reached the shore he could just stand on