I was only a mere tenant of the beautiful place I had had for nine years
and that winter the owner sold the estate. In December I was to go to
Montreux for a couple of months; in March I was to return to Maytham and
close it before leaving it finally. Until I left for Switzerland I saw
my robin every day. Before I went away I called him to me and told him
where I was going.
He was such a little thing. Two or three months might seem a lifetime to
him. He might not remember me so long. I was not a real robin. I was
only a human being. I said a great many things to him--wondering if he
would even be in the garden when I came back. I went away wondering.
When I returned from the world of winter sports, of mountain snows, of
tobogganing and skis I felt as if I had been absent a long time. There
had been snow even in Kent and the park and gardens were white. I
arrived in the evening. The next morning I threw on my red frieze garden
cloak and went down the flagged terrace and the Long Walk through the
walled gardens to the beloved place where the rose bushes stood dark and
slender and leafless among the whiteness. I went to my own tree and
stood under it and called.
"Are you gone," I said in my heart; "are you gone, little Soul? Shall I
never see you again?"
After the call I waited--and I had never waited before.
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