Providence tells herself she
really must get that almanack. She ties a knot in her handkerchief.
It is not her fault: she was made like it. She forgets altogether
for what reason she tied that knot. Thinks it was to remind her to
send frosts in May, or Scotch mists in August. She is not sure
which, so sends both. The farmer has ceased even to be angry with
her--recognises that affliction and sorrow are good for his immortal
soul, and pursues his way in calmness to the Bankruptcy Court.
Hubert St. Leonard, of Windrush Bottom Farm, I found to be a worried-
looking gentleman. He taps his weather-glass, and hopes and fears,
not knowing as yet that all things have been ordered for his ill. It
will be years before his spirit is attuned to that attitude of
tranquil despair essential to the farmer: one feels it. He is tall
and thin, with a sensitive, mobile face, and a curious trick of
taking his head every now and again between his hands, as if to be
sure it is still there. When I met him he was on the point of
starting for his round, so I walked with him. He told me that he had
not always been a farmer. Till a few years ago he had been a
stockbroker. But he had always hated his office; and having saved a
little, had determined when he came to forty to enjoy the rare luxury
of living his own life. I asked him if he found that farming paid.
He said:
"As in everything else, it depends upon the price you put upon
yourself.
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