all mechanical; but a man on
the land, 'e's got to put the land first, whether 'tes his own or some
one else's, or he'll never do no good; might as well go for a postman,
any day. I'm keepin' of you, though, with my tattle!"

In truth, Felix had looked at the old man, for the accursed question
had begun to worry him: Ought he or not to give the lame old fellow
something? Would it hurt his feelings? Why could he not say simply:
'Friend, I'm better off than you; help me not to feel so unfairly
favored'? Perhaps he might risk it. And, diving into his trousers
pockets, he watched the old man's eyes. If they followed his hand, he
would risk it. But they did not. Withdrawing his hand, he said:

"Have a cigar?"

The old fellow's dark face twinkled.

"I don' know," he said, "as I ever smoked one; but I can have a darned
old try!"

"Take the lot," said Felix, and shuffled into the other's pocket the
contents of his cigar-case. "If you get through one, you'll want the
rest. They're pretty good."

"Ah!" said the old man. "Shuldn' wonder, neither."

"Good-by. I hope your leg will soon be better."

"Thank 'ee, sir. Good-by, thank 'ee!"

Looking back from the turning, Felix saw him still standing there in the
middle of the empty street.

Having undertaken to meet his mother, who was returning this afternoon
to Becket, he had still two hours to put away, and passing Mr. Pogram's
house, he turned into a path across a clover-field and sat down on
a stile. He had many thoughts, sitting at the foot of this little
town--which his great-grandfather had brought about. And chiefly he
thought of the old man he had been talking to, sent there, as it seemed
to him, by Providence, to afford a prototype for his 'The Last of the
Laborers.' Wonderful that the old fellow should talk of loving 'the
Land,' whereon he must have toiled for sixty years or so, at a number
of shillings per week, that would certainly not buy the cigars he had
shovelled into that ragged pocket. Wonderful! And yet, a marvellous
sweet thing, when all was said--this land! Changing its sheen and
texture, the feel of its air, its very scent, from day to day. This
land with myriad offspring of flowers and flying folk; the majestic and
untiring march of seasons: Spring and its wistful ecstasy of saplings,
and its yearning, wild, wind-loosened heart; gleam and song, blossom
and cloud, and the swift white rain; each upturned leaf so little and so
glad to flutter; each wo