Quite empty—­that was the impression it made upon his mind both to-night and all next day.  He looked at it in the bright morning sunshine, across the meadows, while the scythes laid down the first long swathes of fragrant grass, and it seemed merely the shell of a house.  He looked at it in the midday glare, as he came up the field to his dinner, and it seemed cold and black and cheerless.  He looked at it in the softer, kinder light of late afternoon, and it seemed to him tragically sad—­a monument of woe rather than a house, a fantastic tomb built in the shape of a house in order to symbolize the homely joy that had perished on this spot.

Yet smoke was rising from its chimneys, sound issuing from its windows.  All day long it had been full of active cheerful life.  It and the fields were happy in the animating harvest toil.  Men with harvesters’ hats, women with sunbonnets, cracked their rustic jokes, laughed, and sang at their labor; Mavis cooked food, filled the big white bobs with beer, sent out bannocks and tin bottles of tea; Dale’s children had rakes and played at hay-making.  Only the master, the husband, the father, was unhappy.

No one knew it, of course.  To other people he appeared to be just the same as usual, naturally preoccupied with thoughts about the weather as one always is at grass-cutting time, giving his orders firmly, and seeing that they were obeyed promptly, smiling and nodding when you showed yourself handy, frowning and looking rather black if you did anything “okkard or feckless.”  Who could have guessed, as he looked at his watch and then at the sky, that he was thinking:  “It wants five minutes of noon, and she is prob’ly out on what they term an esplanade.  There is a nice breeze down there, comin’ to her over the waater, blowin’ her hair a bit loose, flappin’ her skirts, sendin’ out her neck ribbon like a little flag behind her.  It’s all jolly, wi’ the mil’tary band, an’ the smell o’ the waves, an’ crowds an’ crowds o’ people—­an’ she won’t have occasion to think o’ me.  P’raps they’ve bid her wear her best—­the white frock Mavis gave her, with the stockings to match, and the new buckle-shoes—­and likely young lads’ll eye her all over as they pass.  Yes, she’s seeing now the young uns—­the mates for her age—­the proper article to make a photograph of a suitable pair; and she’ll soon stop thinking anything about me, if she hasn’t done it a’ready.”

He was in his office still thinking of her, after the busy day, when the postman brought the last delivery of letters.

“Good evening, sir.  Only three to-night.”

“Thank you.  Good night, George,” and Dale had a friendly smile for this old acquaintance.

Postman George was growing fat and heavy, betraying signs of age.  He had been a sprightly telegraph boy when Dale was postmaster of Rodchurch.

“Good night, sir.  Fine weather for the hay.”

“Yes, capital.”