In truth, Felix had looked at the old man, for the accursed question had begun to worry him:  Ought he or not to give the lame old fellow something?  Would it hurt his feelings?  Why could he not say simply:  ’Friend, I’m better off than you; help me not to feel so unfairly favored’?  Perhaps he might risk it.  And, diving into his trousers pockets, he watched the old man’s eyes.  If they followed his hand, he would risk it.  But they did not.  Withdrawing his hand, he said: 

“Have a cigar?”

The old fellow’s dark face twinkled.

“I don’ know,” he said, “as I ever smoked one; but I can have a darned old try!”

“Take the lot,” said Felix, and shuffled into the other’s pocket the contents of his cigar-case.  “If you get through one, you’ll want the rest.  They’re pretty good.”

“Ah!” said the old man.  “Shuldn’ wonder, neither.”

“Good-by.  I hope your leg will soon be better.”

“Thank ’ee, sir.  Good-by, thank ’ee!”

Looking back from the turning, Felix saw him still standing there in the middle of the empty street.

Having undertaken to meet his mother, who was returning this afternoon to Becket, he had still two hours to put away, and passing Mr. Pogram’s house, he turned into a path across a clover-field and sat down on a stile.  He had many thoughts, sitting at the foot of this little town—­which his great-grandfather had brought about.  And chiefly he thought of the old man he had been talking to, sent there, as it seemed to him, by Providence, to afford a prototype for his ‘The Last of the Laborers.’  Wonderful that the old fellow should talk of loving ‘the Land,’ whereon he must have toiled for sixty years or so, at a number of shillings per week, that would certainly not buy the cigars he had shovelled into that ragged pocket.  Wonderful!  And yet, a marvellous sweet thing, when all was said—­this land!  Changing its sheen and texture, the feel of its air, its very scent, from day to day.  This land with myriad offspring of flowers and flying folk; the majestic and untiring march of seasons:  Spring and its wistful ecstasy of saplings, and its yearning, wild, wind-loosened heart; gleam and song, blossom and cloud, and the swift white rain; each upturned leaf so little and so glad to flutter; each wood and field so full of peeping things!  Summer!  Ah!  Summer, when on the solemn old trees the long days shone and lingered, and the glory of the meadows and the murmur of life and the scent of flowers bewildered tranquillity, till surcharge of warmth and beauty brooded into dark passion, and broke!  And Autumn, in mellow haze down on the fields and woods; smears of gold already on the beeches, smears of crimson on the rowans, the apple-trees still burdened, and a flax-blue sky well-nigh merging with the misty air; the cattle browsing in the lingering golden stillness; not a breath to fan the blue smoke of the weed-fires—­and