t down the lane with a pleasant friendly
feeling of companionship. We had done great things together.

I wonder if you ever felt the joy of utter physical weariness: not
exhaustion, but weariness. I wonder if you have ever sat down, as I did
last night, and felt as though you would like to remain just there
always--without stirring a single muscle, without speaking, without
thinking even!

Such a moment is not painful, but quite the reverse--it is supremely
pleasant. So I sat for a time last evening on my porch. The cool, still
night had fallen sweetly after the burning heat of the day. I heard all
the familiar sounds of the night. A whippoorwill began to whistle in the
distant thicket. Harriet came out quietly--I could see the white of her
gown--and sat near me. I heard the occasional sleepy tinkle of a
cowbell, and the crickets were calling. A star or two came out in the
perfect dark blue of the sky. The deep, sweet, restful night was on. I
don't know that I said it aloud--such things need not be said aloud--but
as I turned almost numbly into the house, stumbling on my way to bed, my
whole being seemed to cry out: "Thank God, thank God!"

XI

AN OLD MAN

Today I saw Uncle Richard Summers walking in the town road: and cannot
get him out of my mind. I think I never knew any one who wears so
plainly the garment of Detached Old Age as he. One would not now think
of calling him a farmer, any more than one would think of calling him a
doctor, or a lawyer, or a justice of the peace. No one would think now
of calling him "Squire Summers," though he bore that name with no small
credit many years ago. He is no longer known as hardworking, or able, or
grasping, or rich, or wicked: he is just Old. Everything seems to have
been stripped away from Uncle Richard except age.

How well I remember the first time Uncle Richard Summers impressed
himself upon my mind. It was after the funeral of his old wife, now
several years ago. I saw him standing at the open grave with his
broad-brimmed felt hat held at his breast. His head was bowed and his
thin, soft, white hair stirred in the warm breeze. I wondered at his
quietude. After fifty years or more together his nearest companion and
friend had gone, and he did not weep aloud. Afterward I was again
impressed with the same fortitude or quietude. I saw him walking down
the long drive to the main road with all the friends of our
neighbourhood about him--and the trees rising full