while she breathed her
last.

DEATH

Year after year went away into nothing, with great explosions and
outcries in the cities on the plain: red revolt springing up and being
suppressed in blood, battle swaying hither and thither, patient
astronomers in observatory towers picking out and christening new stars,
plays being performed in lighted theatres, people being carried 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: "The