Bessie Costrell

It was an August evening, still and cloudy after a day unusually chilly for the time of year. Now, about sunset, the temperature was warmer than it had been in the morning, and thedeparting sun was forcing its way through the clouds, breaking up their level masses intodelicate lattice-work of golds and greys. The last radiant light was on the wheat-fieldsunder the hill, and on the long chalk hill itself. Against that glowing background lay thevillage, already engulfed by the advancing shadow. All the nearer trees, which the daylighthad mingled in one green monotony, stood out sharp and distinct, each in its own plane, against the hill. Each natural object seemed to gain a new accent, a more individual beauty, from the vanishing and yet lingering sunlight. An elderly labourer was walking along the road which led to the village. To his right lay theallotment gardens just beginning to be alive with figures, and the voices of men andchildren. Beyond them, far ahead, rose the square tower of the church; to his left was thehill, and straight in front of him the village, with its veils of smoke lightly brushed over thetrees, and its lines of cottages climbing the chalk steeps behind it. His eye as he walked tookin a number of such facts as life had trained it to notice. Once he stopped to bend over afence, to pluck a stalk or two of oats. He examined them carefully; then he threw back hishead and sniffed the air, looking all round the sky meanwhile. Yes, the season had been lateand harsh, but the fine weather was coming at last. Two or three days' warmth now wouldripen even the oats, let alone the wheat. Well, he was glad. He wanted the harvest over. It would, perhaps, be his last harvest atClinton Magna, where he had worked, man and boy, for fifty-six years come Michaelmas. His last harvest! A curious pleasure stirred the man's veins as he thought of it, a pleasure inexpected change, which seemed to bring back the pulse of youth, to loosen a little the yokeat those iron years that had perforce aged and bent him; though, for sixty-two, he was stillhale and stron