Often when he awoke
to the early summer daybreak and saw through his attic-window the
grey shadows of the sheep still and long on the slope above the
farmstead, his ear was wanting something, asking for something; for
the murmur of the sea never reached this inland valley. And he would
lie and long for the chirruping of the two children in the next room
and the drawing of bolts and clatter of milk-pails below stairs.
He had plenty to eat, and that plenty simple and good, and clean
linen to sleep between. The kitchen was his except on Saturday
nights, when Mrs. Joll and Lizzie tubbed the children there, and then
he would carry his books off to the best parlour or stroll around the
farm with Mr. Joll and discuss the stock. There were no loose rails
in Mr. Joll's gates, no farm implements lying out in the weather to
rust. Mr. Joll worked early and late, and his shoulders had a
tell-tale stoop--for he was a man in the prime of life, perhaps some
five years older than his wife.
One Saturday evening he unburdened his heart to Taffy. It happened
at the end of the hay-harvest, and the two were leaning over a gate
discussing the yet unthatched rick.
"What I say is," declared the farmer quite in-consequently, "a man
must be able to lay his troubles 'pon the Lord. I don't mean his
work, but his troubles; and go home and shut the door and be happy
with his wife and children.
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