The farmer
buried his servant handsomely--good man, he knew the love of
reticent grief for a 'kind' burial--and one day Harry's mother is
to lie beside him in the little churchyard which has been a
cornfield, and may some day be one again.
CHAPTER II
On Sundays my feet take ever the same way. First my temple
service, and then five miles tramp over the tender, dewy fields,
with their ineffable earthy smell, until I reach the little church
at the foot of the grey-green down. Here, every Sunday, a young
priest from a neighbouring village says Mass for the tiny hamlet,
where all are very old or very young--for the heyday of life has no
part under the long shadow of the hills, but is away at sea or in
service. There is a beautiful seemliness in the extreme youth of
the priest who serves these aged children of God. He bends to
communicate them with the reverent tenderness of a son, and reads
with the careful intonation of far-seeing love. To the old people
he is the son of their old age, God-sent to guide their tottering
footsteps along the highway of foolish wayfarers; and he, with his
youth and strength, wishes no better task. Service ended, we greet
each other friendly--for men should not be strange in the acre of
God; and I pass through the little hamlet and out and up on the
grey down beyond. Here, at the last gate, I pause for breakfast;
and then up and on with quickening pulse, and evergreen memory of
the weary war-worn Greeks who broke rank to greet the great blue
Mother-way that led to home.
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