He Was A Sturdy-Looking Young Fellow With A
Sun-Browned Face, In Earth-Coloured, Working Clothes, With A
Small
Cap stuck on the back of his round curly head; he
probably imagined himself not a bad-looking young man,
For
while his horses were drinking he laid over on the broad bare
backs and bending down studied his own reflection in the
bright water. Then an old woman came out of a cottage close
by, and began talking to him in her West Country dialect in a
thin high-pitched cracked voice. Their talking was the only
sound in the village; so silent was it that all the rest of
its inhabitants might have been in bed and fast asleep; then,
the conversation ended, the young man rode out with a great
splashing and the old woman turned into her cottage again, and
I was left in solitude.
Still I lingered: I could not go just yet; the chances were
that I should never again see that sweet village in that
beautiful aspect at the twilight hour.
For now it came into my mind that I could not very well settle
there for the rest of my life; I could not, in fact, tie
myself to any place without sacrificing certain other
advantages I possessed; and the main thing was that by taking
root I should deprive myself of the chance of looking on still
other beautiful scenes and experiencing other sweet surprises.
I was wishing that I had come a little earlier on the scene to
have had time to borrow the key of the church and get a sight
of the interior, when all at once I heard a shrill voice and a
boy appeared running across the wide green space of the
churchyard.
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