It was at a short distance
from the village, so quiet, so tranquil, that, living there, one
seemed out of the world.
Stephen Thorne and his wife were not rich. In spite of Lady
Earle's bounty, it was hard for them at times to make both ends
meet. Crops, even in that fair and fertile county, would fail,
cattle would die, rain would fall when it should not, and the sun
refuse to shine. But this year everything had gone on well; the
hay stood in great ricks in the farm yard, the golden corn waved
in the fields ripe and ready for the sickle, the cows and sheep
fed tranquilly in the meadows, and all things had prospered with
Stephen Thorne. One thing only weighed upon his heart--his wife
would have it that Dora's letters grew more and more sad; she
declared her child was unhappy, and he could not persuade her to
the contrary.
It was a fair August evening. Ah! How weak and feeble are the
words. Who could paint the golden flush of summer beauty that
lay over the meadows and corn fields--the hedge rows filled with
wild flowers, the long, thick grass studded with gay blossoms,
the calm, sullen silence only broken by the singing of the birds,
the lowing of cattle, the rustling of green leaves in the sweet
soft air?
Stephen Thorne had gone with his guest and visitor, Ralph Holt,
to fetch the cattle home.
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