rried into
hospital on stretchers, and all the usual turmoil and agitation of men's
lives in crowded centres. Up in Will's valley only the winds and seasons
made an epoch; the fish hung in the swift stream, the birds circled
overhead, the pine-tops rustled underneath the stars, the tall hills
stood over all; and Will went to and fro, minding his wayside inn, until
the snow began to thicken on his head. His heart was young and vigorous;
and if his pulses kept a sober time, they still beat strong and steady in
his wrists. He carried a ruddy stain on either cheek, like a ripe apple;
he stooped a little, but his step was still firm; and his sinewy hands
were reached out to all men with a friendly pressure. His face was
covered with those wrinkles which are got in open air, and which rightly
looked at, are no more than a sort of permanent sunburning; such wrinkles
heighten the stupidity of stupid faces; but to a person like Will, with
his clear eyes and smiling mouth, only give another charm by testifying
to a simple and easy life. His talk was full of wise sayings. He had a
taste for other people; and other people had a taste for him. When the
valley was full of tourists in the season, there were merry nights in
Will's arbour; and his views, which seemed whimsical to his neighbours,
were often enough admired by learned people out of towns and colleges.
Indeed, he had a very noble old age, and grew daily better known; so that
his fame was heard of in the cities of the plain; and young men who had
been summer travellers spoke together in _cafes_ of Will o' the Mill and
his rough philosophy. Many and many an invitation, you may be sure, he
had; but nothing could tempt him from his upland valley. He would shake
his head and smile over his tobacco-pipe with a deal of meaning. 'You
come too late,' he would answer. 'I am a dead man now: I have lived and
died already. Fifty years ago you would have brought my heart into my
mouth; and now you do not even tempt me. But that is the object of long
living, that man should cease to care about life.' And again: 'There is
only one difference between a long life and a good dinner: that, in the
dinner, the sweets come last.' Or once more: 'When I was a boy, I was a
bit puzzled, and hardly knew whether it was myself or the world that was
curious and worth looking into. Now, I know it is myself, and stick to
that.'

He never showed any symptom of frailty, but kept stalwart and f