Miranda slept in the orchard, lying in a long chair beneath the apple tree. Her book had fallen into the grass, and her finger still seemed to point at the sentence "Ce pays est vraiment un des coins du monde oui le rire des filles elate le mieux…”as if she had fallen asleep just there. The opals on her finger flushed green, flushed rosy, and again flushed orange as the sun, oozing through the apple-trees, filled them. Then, when the breeze blew, her purple dress rippled like a flower attached to a stalk; the grasses nodded; and the white butterfly came blowing this way and that just above her face.
Four feet in the air over her head the apples hung. Suddenly there was a shrill clamour as if they were gongs of cracked brass beaten violently, irregularly, and brutally. It was only the school-children saying the multiplication table in unison, stopped by the teacher，scolded and beginning to say the multiplication table over again. But this clamour passed four feet above Miranda's head, went through the apple boughs，and, striking against the cowman's little boy who was picking blackberries in the hedge when he should have been at school, made him tear his thumb on the thorns.
Next there was a solitary cry-sad, human, brutal. Old Parsley was, indeed, blind drunk.
Then the very topmost leaves of the apple-tree, flat like little fish against the blue, thirty feet above the earth, chimed with a pensive and lugubrious note. It was the organ in the church playing one of Hymns Ancient and Modern. The sound floated out and was cut into atoms by a flock of field-fares flying at an enormous speed-somewhere or other. Miranda lay asleep thirty feet beneath.
Then above the apple-tree and the pear-tree two hundred feet above Miranda lying asleep in the orchard bells thudded, intermittent, sullen, didactic, for six poor women of the parish were being churched and the Rector was returning thanks to heaven.
And above that with a sharp squeak the golden feather of the church tower turned from south to east. The wind changed. Above everything else it droned，above the woods, the meadows, the hills, miles above Miranda lying in the orchard asleep. It swept on, eyeless, brainless, meeting nothing that could stand against it, until, wheeling the other way, it turned south again. Miles below, in a space as big as the eye of a needle, Miranda stood upright and cried aloud一“Oh, I shall be late for tea!"
米兰达睡在果园里，躺在苹果树底下的一张长椅上。她的书已经掉在草地上，她的手指似乎仍指着那句:"Ce pays estvraimentun des coins du le des filler eclate le mieux...”仿佛她就在那儿睡着了。她手指上的猫眼石在穿过苹果树的阳光的照耀下，忽而发绿，忽而发玫瑰红，忽而又发橘黄。微风一吹，她的紫裙泛起涟漪，像依附在茎上的花儿;草儿随风摇曳;一只白蝴蝶就在她的脸上飞来飞去。