ching his
progress, which astonished him.

A light of windy sunset lay spread over the white valley, and the
freshening gusts drove the powdery snow before them, and sent little
stabs of pain through John's shrinking body. Yet how glad he was to
find himself again between those familiar hedges, to see the
church-tower in front of him, the long hill to his right! His heart
swelled at once with longing and satisfaction. During his Frampton
job, and in the infirmary, he had suffered much, physically and
mentally. He had missed Eliza and the tendance of years more than he
had ever imagined he could; and he had found himself too old for new
faces and a new society. When he fell ill he had been sorely tempted
to send for some of his money, and get himself nursed and cared for at
the respectable lodging where he had put up. But no; in the end he set
his teeth and went into the infirmary. He had planned not to touch his
hoard till he had done with the Frampton job and returned to Clinton
for good. His peasant obstinacy could not endure to be beaten; nor,
indeed, could he bring himself to part with his keys, to trust the
opening of the hoard even to Isaac.

Since then he had passed through many weary weeks, sometimes of acute
pain, sometimes of sinking weakness, during which he had been haunted
by many secret torments, springing mainly from the fear of death. He
had almost been driven to make his will. But in the end superstitious
reluctance prevailed. He had not made his will; and to dwell on the
fact gave him the sensation of having escaped a bond, if not a danger.
He did not want to leave his money behind him; he wanted to spend it,
as he had told Eliza and Mary Anne and Bessie scores of times. To have
assigned it to any one else, even after his death, would have made it
less his own.

Ah, well! those bad weeks were done, and here he was, at home again.
Suddenly, as he tramped on, he caught sight against the hill of
Bessie's cottage, the blue smoke from it blown across the rime-laden
trees behind it. He drew in his breath with a deep, tremulous delight.
That buoyant self-congratulation indeed which had stood between him and
the pain of Eliza's death was gone. Rather, there was in him a
profound yearning for rest, for long dreaming by the fire or in the
sun, with his pipe to smoke, and Jim's Louisa to look after him, and
nothing to do but to draw a half-crown from his box when he wanted it.
No more hard work