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ent slowly towards home. As she went she heard a faint tapping away on the right,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], and stood still to listen. Was it hammering, or a woodpecker? It was surely hammering. She walked on, listening. And then she noticed a narrow track between young fir-trees, a track that seemed to lead nowhere. But she felt it had been used. She turned down it adventurously,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], between the thick young firs, which gave way soon to the old oak wood. She followed the track, and the hammering grew nearer, in the silence of the windy wood, for trees make a silence even in their noise of wind. She saw a secret little clearing, and a secret little hot made of rustic poles. And she had never been here before! She realized it was the quiet place where the growing pheasants were reared; the keeper in his shirt-sleeves was kneeling, hammering. The dog trotted forward with a short, sharp bark, and the keeper lifted his face suddenly and saw her. He had a startled look in his eyes. He straightened himself and saluted, watching her in silence, as she came forward with weakening limbs. He resented the intrusion; he cherished his solitude as his only and last freedom in life. `I wondered what the hammering was,' she said, feeling weak and breathless, and a little afraid of him, as he looked so straight at her. `Ah'm gettin' th' coops ready for th' young bods,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych],' he said,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], in broad vernacular. She did not know what to say, and she felt weak. `I should like to sit down a bit,' she said. `Come and sit 'ere i' th' 'ut,'
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