at the bottom of the garden, that neither my mother nor Miss Betsey could forbear glancing that way.

As the elms bent to one another, like giants who were whispering secrets, and after a few seconds of such repose, fell into a violent flurry, tossing their wild arms about, as if their late confidences were really too wicked for their peace of mind, some weatherbeaten ragged old rooks’-nests, burdening their higher branches, swung like wrecks upon a stormy sea.

‘Where are the birds?’ asked Miss Betsey.

‘The — ?’ My mother had been thinking of something else.

‘The rooks — what has become of them?’ asked Miss Betsey.

‘There have not been any since we have lived here,’