A JOURNAL KEPT IN THE COUNTRY. 33 



height. I turned from the majestic apparatus of 

 clouds and the salient beauty of the land into the 

 dark of Tomsett's cottage not quite contentedly. 

 The room is a kitchen of the common pattern, a low 

 ceiling of dusty plaster and black timbers, rickety 

 windows with leaded panes, one battered door to the 

 outer air. The sempiternal kettle bubbled on the 

 stove ; a cat dozed on the faded patchwork cushion 

 in the armchair ; a couple of photographs and a stuffed 

 plover graced the walls. Over all hung the dull 

 fustiness mixed of damp foundations, rotting thatch, 

 wood fires, cooking, and old corduroy. The lattice, 

 patched with brown paper, looked on the garden-plot 

 of wintered kale-stumps and a moss-smothered apple 

 tree. 



By the fire, sitting upright, stick in hand, in round 

 frock, long gaiters, and an ancient billycock hat, was 

 Tomsett. The old man is good-looking, as looks go 

 among our plain-featured people has a strong brow, 

 winter-apple cheeks, and a fringe of white whisker 

 under his jaw ; his eyes have the weary, patient look 

 that so many old eyes have here one of the saddest 

 looks I know. 



He tried to say something by way of thanks for 

 the trouble people had taken for him. Muster Lewk- 

 nor they never call him the Rector in the cottages 



D 



