d by the late moon rose, and a little later the east began to grow
lighter and the dark down to change imperceptibly to dim hoary green.
Then the exquisite colours of the dawn once more, and the larks rising
in the dim distance--a beautiful unearthly sound--and so in the end I
came to "The Stones," rejoicing, in spite of a cloud which now appeared
on the eastern horizon to prevent the coming sun from being seen, that
I had the place to myself. The rejoicing came a little too soon; a very
few minutes later other visitors on foot and on bicycles began to come
in, and we all looked at each other a little blankly. Then a motorcar
arrived, and two gentlemen stepped out and stared at us, and one
suddenly burst out laughing.

"I see nothing to laugh at!" said his companion a little severely.

The other in a low voice made some apology or explanation which I failed
to catch. It was, of course, not right; it was indecent to laugh on
such an occasion, for we were not of the ebullient sort who go to "The
Stones" at three o'clock in the morning "for a lark"; but it was very
natural in the circumstances, and mentally I laughed myself at the
absurdity of the situation. However, the laugher had been rebuked for
his levity, and this incident over, there was nothing further to disturb
me or any one in our solemn little gathering.

It was a very sweet experience, and I cannot say that my early morning
outing would have been equally good at any other lonely spot on
Salisbury Plain or anywhere else with a wide starry sky above me, the
flush of dawn in the east, and the larks rising heavenward out of the
dim misty earth. Those rudely fashioned immemorial stones standing dark
and large against the pale clear moonlit sky imparted something to
the feeling. I sat among them alone and had them all to myself, as
the others, fearing to tear their clothes on the barbed wire, had
not ventured to follow me when I got through the fence. Outside the
enclosure they were some distance from me, and as they talked in subdued
tones, their voices reached me as a low murmur--a sound not out of
harmony with the silent solitary spirit of the place; and there was now
no other sound except that of a few larks singing fitfully a long way
off.

Just what the element was in that morning's feeling which Stonehenge
contributed I cannot say. It was too vague and uncertain, too closely
interwoven with the more common feeling for nature. No doubt it was
partly due to