10 THE LIFE OF THE FIELDS. 



soft, brown velvet, the laugh, the tear gone for ever. 

 The divine eye was broken — battered as a stone might 

 be. The exquisite structure which reflected the trees 

 and flowers, and took to itself the colour of the summer 

 sky, was shapeless. 



In the second year, Mr. Andrew came down, and one 

 day met her in the village. He did not know her. 

 The stoop, the dress which clothed, but responded to 

 no curve, the sunken breast, and the sightless eye, how 

 should he recognize these ? This ragged, plain, this 

 ugly, repellent creature — he did not know her. She 

 spoke; Mr. Andrew hastily fumbled in his pocket, 

 fetched out half a crown, gave it, and passed on 

 quickly. How fortunate that he had not entangled 

 himself ! 



Meantime, Mat drank and worked harder than 

 ever, and became more morose, so that no one dared 

 cross him, yet as a worker he was trusted by the 

 farmer. Whatever it was, the fire in him burned 

 deeper, and to the very quick. The poppies came and 

 went once more, the harvest moon rose yellow and 

 ruddy, all the joy of the year proceeded, but Dolly 

 was like a violet over which a waggon-wheel had 

 rolled. The thorn had gone deep into her bosom. 



II. Rural Dynamite. 



In the cold North men eat bread of fir-bark ; in our 

 own fields the mouse, if pressed for food in winter, will 

 gnaw the bark of sapling trees. Frost sharpens the 

 teeth like a file, and hunger is keener than frost. If 

 any one used to more fertile scenes had walked across 



