THE white crescent of the little new moon blinked at us through the yew
boughs. As you walk up the churchyard you see thirteen yews on each side
of you, and yet, if you count them up, they make twenty-seven, and it
has been pointed out to me that neither numerical fact can be without
occult significance. The jugglery in numbers is done by the seventh yew
on the left, which hides a shrinking sister in the amplitude of its
shadow.
The midsummer day was dying in a golden haze. Amid the gathering shadows
of the churchyard her gown gleamed white, ghostlike.
"Oh, there's the new moon," she said. "I am so glad. Take your hat off
to her and turn the money in your pocket, and you will get whatever you
wish for, and be rich as well."