In a field of mowing-grass and again in the oats he caught the rank scent of an enemy—luckily in time to avoid it and withdraw without being discovered. Now and again he stopped to nibble a bit of tempting herbage; but he did not settle down to feed until the small hours, when he returned to the clover. Here he remained till the first flush in the sky warned him he must seek a retreat in which to pass the day. Twice he made towards the gate as if he were leaving the field, as often retraced his steps, presently repaired to the spot where the clover was most luxuriant, and lay there. No sooner, however, had he sat down than he realised that the stems which shut out the sight of everything prevented him from seeing an enemy, should one approach. The lack of outlook troubled him: soon he imagined that he could hear the faint sound of a stealthy footfall. To satisfy himself that he was mistaken he kept raising his head and looking round until, unable to endure the misery any longer, he stole from the seat and hurried back to the highest part of the farm, where a hedge had taken his fancy as he had crossed from the barley to the oats. There, amongst the coarse grasses, beneath the fronds of a solitary brake-fern, he sat with his face to the dawn-wind, which played with his whiskers, swayed the ears of the barley, and buffeted the smoke rising from the chimney of the homestead. The light was still grey, but beyond the low roof of the byre the hills stood expectant of the sun, whose fiery disc soon bathed summit and slope with its richest rays. The conspicuous heights attracted the eyes of the leveret till the orb rose higher and made a glory of the dew on the leaves of the tree amidst the barley; then the sparkling beads won and held his gaze; later the tree itself so absorbed his attention that he seemed to be wondering what it did there. It certainly was a strange place for a tree, especially for a fruit-tree, though it was not strange to the people familiar with its story. The field, or rather a part of it, had formerly been a garden—it is still called Johanna’s Garden; and sentiment had caused the tree to be spared, though it interfered with the plough and attracted badgers who trod down the crop.