ice I had peeped through the open
door and seen the blackened hearthstone, but I had never gone inside.
The remains of a turf wall surrounded the cottage, but the low garden
that this wall enclosed was overrun with ragwort and nettles and
hemlock. My terrier was fond of investigating the garden, because among
the thick undergrowth he invariably found either rabbits or water-rats,
or a stoat. On this bright morning I was much surprised to find the
whole of the enclosure cleared. Outside of the boundary was a great heap
of ashes, from which clouds of dust drifted hither and thither. A light
smoke arose from the chimney, and as my dog and I approached, a heavy
bark came from a mastiff that was chained inside the low wicket. A
sudden sense of companionship almost frightened me. It seemed as though
the brownie had come from his clump of rushes to set things in order. A
chair stood in the centre of a patch of grass that crowned a little
hillock near the cottage, and while I waited and wondered a bowed figure
stole forth and walked slowly towards the chair. The man did not appear
to notice me, but sat down and picked up a book which had lain on the
grass. He then took off his hat, drew a deep breath, and I caught sight
of his face. His grizzled hair hung over a careworn forehead. The eyes
were sunken under deep and wrinkled brows, and the lips were drawn. I
felt like an interloper, and determined to rid myself of all unpleasant
feeling by stepping forward and speaking at once to the stranger. I
could not think of anything better to say than "Good morning, sir. We
have another fine day, have we not?" The man looked up, and his tired
eyes brightened with a kind smile. I took to him from that first glance.
We had a little commonplace chat, and then I said, "I see you are a
reader."

My new friend answered, "Oh, yes, I find books serve well to prevent
anyone from thinking."

"But do you never think, then?"

"Never, when I can help it; I take reading as an opiate. I press other
men's thoughts down upon my own till mine cannot rise."

The queer smile with which the speaker delivered his paradox made me
curious, and I determined to draw him further into conversation.

I continued, "May I ask what book you are using just now to batten down
your own thoughts?"

He showed me the "Purgatory," and I saw that he was reading the Italian.
Here was a discovery! In the village I had been regarded as a remarkable
being because I could re