There was no particular reason at the time why these words should have so impressed me.  Solitude was the last thing I desired then, having gone down to Shoreford for my holiday, merely because Catherine was spending the summer there too.  But now that everything is over between us, the solitary farm comes as balm to my wounded spirit.  Let me see; to-day is Tuesday the 2nd.  Good Friday is the day after to-morrow; I could get away to-morrow evening.  All right!  I’ll go out and telegraph to Mrs. Anderson, and pay for her reply.

April 4.  Down End Farm.—­I reached this last night.  At seven o’clock I found myself driving up from Rexingham station, with the crimson flaming brands of the sunset behind me, and the soft mysterious twilight closing in on all sides.  It was almost dark when we got to the top of Beacon Point Hill, and quite dark for a time as we began to descend the other side, for the road here is cut down between steep red gravel banks, crowned with sombre fir trees.  When these were passed and we reached the remembered stack-yard gate, there was clear heaven again above my head, its exquisite ever-darkening blue already gemmed with the more brilliant stars.  The Plough faintly outlined above, and beautiful spica hanging low over Windle Flats.  A cheerful glow-worm of red earth-light gleamed from the farm-house windows as we drove round to the inner gate, while at the sound of the wheels the kitchen door opened, and my hostess came down the flagged pathway between the sleepy flowers to bid me welcome.

How delightful the first evening in country quarters always is.  How comfortable the wood fire that flamed and sputtered on the parlour hearth, how inviting the meal of tea, new-laid eggs, homemade breads and jams, honey and hot scones spread out upon a spotless cloth around a centre piece of daffodils and early garden flowers.  For a rejected suitor I felt singularly cheerful; for a blighted being I made a most excellent meal; and for the desperate misogynist I had determined on becoming I surely felt too much placid satisfaction at Mrs. Anderson’s homely talk.

But it was really pleasant to lie back in the capacious leathern chair, while this good woman cleared away the tea-things, and lazily eyeing the fire, listen to the history of herself and her family, of her husband, her children, her landlord, of her courtship, her marriage, her troubles, of the death of her mother in the room overhead the year before last, and of the wedding of her eldest boy Robert which is to take place this summer as soon as the corn is carried.

Such openness of disposition, so often found among people of Mrs. Anderson’s class, is very refreshing, and it is convenient too.  You know at once where you stand.  I wish it were the custom in society.  I should then have learned from Catherine’s own lips how many fellows she had already sent to the right-about, and I should have given her no opportunity of adding to their number.