CHAPTER IV It is four o'clock. There is a delicious hush all over the house and grounds, a hush that betrays the absence of the male bird from his nest, and bespeaks security. Billy and I, hat in hand, stand upon the door-step and look with caution round us, preparatory to taking flight to Brinsley Wood. Ever since my unlucky confession of having asked Mr. Carrington's permission to wander through the grounds--thereby betraying the pleasure I feel in such wanderings--we have found it strangely difficult to get beyond the precincts of our home. Obstacles the most unforeseen crop up to stay our steps, some supernatural agency being apparently at work, by which papa becomes cognizant of even our most secret intentions. To-day, however, brings us such a chance of freedom as we may not have again, business having called our father to an adjoining village, from which he cannot possibly return until the shades of evening have well fallen. Our evil genius, too, has for once been kind, having forgotten to suggest to him before starting the advisability of regulating our movements during the hours he will be absent. We are, therefore, unfettered, and with a glow of pleasure not unmixed with triumph we sally off towards the deep green woods. It is that sweetest month of the twelve, September--a glorious ripe September, that has never yet appeared so sweet and golden-brown as on this afternoon, that brings us so near the close of it. High in the trees hang clusters of filberts, that have tempted our imagination for some time, and now, with a basket slung between us, that links us as we walk, we meditate a raid. As with light, exultant footsteps we hurry onwards, snatches of song fall from my lips--a low, soft contralto voice being my one charm. We are utterly, carelessly, recklessly happy, with that joyous forgetfulness of all that has gone before, and may yet follow, that belongs alone to youth. Now and then Billy's high, boyish notes join mine, making the woods ring, until the song comes to sudden grief through lack of memory when gay laughter changes the echo's tone. Here a bunch of late and luscious blackberries claim our attention. And once we have a mad race after a small brown squirrel that evades us cleverly, and presently revenges itself for its enforced haste by grinning at us provokingly from an inaccessible branch. At last the wood we want is reached; the nuts are in full view; our object is attained. "Now," asks Billy, with a sigh of delight, "at which tree shall we begin?" It is a mere matter of form his asking me this question, as he would think it derogatory to his manly dignity to follow any suggestion I might make. All the trees are laden: they more than answer our expectations. Each one appears so much better than the other it is difficult to choose between them. "At this," I say, at length, pointing to one richly clothed that stands before us.