We are apt to make so much of the tragedy of
death, and think so little of the enduring tragedy of some men's
lives, that we see more to lament for in a life cut off in the midst
of usefulness and love, than in one that miserably survives all love
and usefulness, and goes about the world the phantom of itself,
without hope, or joy, or any consolation. These flowers seemed not
so much the token of love that survived death, as of something yet
more beautiful - of love that had lived a man's life out to an end
with him, and been faithful and companionable, and not weary of
loving, throughout all these years.
The morning cleared a little, and the sky was once more the old
stone-coloured vault over the sallow meadows and the russet woods, as
I set forth on a dog-cart from Wendover to Tring. The road lay for a
good distance along the side of the hills, with the great plain below
on one hand, and the beech-woods above on the other. The fields were
busy with people ploughing and sowing; every here and there a jug of
ale stood in the angle of the hedge, and I could see many a team wait
smoking in the furrow as ploughman or sower stepped aside for a
moment to take a draught.
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