To prove himself more
polite than she supposed, Caryl Carne, hat in hand and with low bows
preserving a respectful distance, conducted her to a little place of
shelter, so pretty and humble and secluded by its own want of art, and
simplicity of skill, that she was equally pleased and surprised with it.
"Why, it is quite a little bower!" she exclaimed; "as pretty a little
nest as any bird could wish for. And what a lovely view towards the west
and beyond Pebbleridge! One could sit here forever and see the sun set.
But I must have passed it fifty times without the least suspicion of it.
How on earth have you managed to conceal it so? That is to say, if it is
your doing. Surely the children must have found it out, because they go
everywhere."
"One brat did. But I gave him such a scare that he never stopped roaring
till next Sunday, and it frightened all the rest from looking round that
corner. If any other comes, I shall pitch-plaster him, for I could not
endure that noise again. But you see, at a glance, why you have failed
to see it, as we always do with our little oversights, when humbly
pointed out to us. It is the colour of the ground and the background
too, and the grayness of the scanty growth that hides it. Nobody finds
it out by walking across it, because of this swampy place on your side,
and the shoot of flints down from the cliff on the other, all sharp as
a knife, and as rough as a saw.
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