Sir John Dering by Jeffery Farnol

Away strode Sir John across sunny fields, light of foot, treading a springy turf, breathing a fragrant air, swinging his holly-stick and vaulting stiles for the pure joy of it all. Birds piped and chirped from hedge and thicket, larks carolled in the blue, rills bubbled and laughed, and scabious flowers danced and swayed in the gentle wind in tune with the universal gladness.

And so in good time came Sir John to High Dering. For there, perched upon his accustomed stile in well-brushed hat and snowy smock-frock, sat the Ancient Person in animated converse with one who leaned gracefully against the gnarled post of the old stile, listening to the Aged One's talk, but watching Sir John from the shadow of her hat, with eyes quick to heed all the careless, easy grace of him as he came light-treading across the sun-dappled ling.