Until they came to a stream, in size between a brook and a river, the country was to the two as the other familiar country. But this was the stream that murmured past the Oak Grange. They were riding by its shore, they were going toward the Grange—now indeed it grew to be known land. Aderhold knew every winding.... The two rode as in a dream. Before them, in the distance, in a golden haze, rose a forest. “Hawthorn Wood”—and Joan’s voice made the words dreamy music. The sun was warm now, the sky was blue, the leaves were falling, but without sadness, ready to go, to return once more to the elements, build again. The stream bent and the road with it. There came a long reach of murmuring water, sliding by a pebbly strand. Across it now were fields that once had gone with the Oak Grange.... A little farther, and they saw the old house, and before it the fairy oak. Just at the footbridge across the stream sounded an order to halt. The lean, grim man whom the town had sent spoke in a harsh and rattling voice. “This is where he made gold and practised sorcery.—Thou God-denier! behold thy old lair, how accursed it looks!” To the two it did not seem accursed. It stood an old, deserted, ruinous house, but the ivy was green upon it, and the sunshine bathed it, and the swallows circled above the roof. The oak tree in front lived, and from its acorns were growing other oaks.... Joan and Aderhold looked long and earnestly. The air was thronged with memories and there seemed a weaving music. They were not unhappy—the artifex within them was not unhappy. But those that were with them thought that they must be so. The horses were in motion again. And now the road turned and became Hawthorn Forest road that ran to Hawthorn. The Oak Grange passed from sight, the murmur of the stream left the ears. They were within Hawthorn Forest. The great trees rose around; there fell gold shafts of light; there came the odour, damp and rich, of the forest mould deepening, deepening since old time. Down a purple vista they saw deer moving—a faint wind was blowing—there was a drifting, drifting down of leaves.... To Joan and Aderhold this forest breathed music. They were glad to be here once again. They knew the single trees and the groups of trees, they knew each picture within a picture: loved the detail and loved the whole. It was sweet, before death, to have been in Hawthorn Wood again. Heron’s cottage. When they were forth from the forest they would see that plainly, riding by. Perhaps they would draw rein there too. The red crept into Joan’s cheek, her grey eyes grew bright and wistful.... The forest stopped; the grassy road brought them out into full sunshine, a high blue sky arching the open, autumn country. Heron’s cottage.... There was yet the green path from the road, yet the fruit trees, bronze now and trembling in the wind—but there was no thatched cottage. “Vile witch!” said the tall man, “Hawthorn burned your house.”