John Willet looked after them, as they plodded along the road in the
rich glow of a summer evening; and knocking the ashes out of his pipe,
laughed inwardly at their folly, until his sides were sore. When he had
quite exhausted himself--which took some time, for he laughed as slowly
as he thought and spoke--he sat himself comfortably with his back to the
house, put his legs upon the bench, then his apron over his face, and
fell sound asleep.
How long he slept, matters not; but it was for no brief space, for
when he awoke, the rich light had faded, the sombre hues of night were
falling fast upon the landscape, and a few bright stars were already
twinkling overhead. The birds were all at roost, the daisies on the
green had closed their fairy hoods, the honeysuckle twining round the
porch exhaled its perfume in a twofold degree, as though it lost its
coyness at that silent time and loved to shed its fragrance on the
night; the ivy scarcely stirred its deep green leaves. How tranquil, and
how beautiful it was!
Was there no sound in the air, besides the gentle rustling of the
trees and the grasshopper's merry chirp? Hark! Something very faint and
distant, not unlike the murmuring in a sea-shell.
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