It was a lovely evening. Half the sky was clear and blue, and the other half full of silky gold clouds—they wanted to be heavy and wet, but the sun was having such fun on the edge of the Downs, somewhere about Duncton, that they had to be gold in spite of themselves.
CONCLUSION
One evening at the end of the first week in September, Martin Pippin walked along the Roman Road to Adversane. And as he approached he said to himself, "There are many sweet corners in Sussex, but few sweeter than this, and I thank my stars that I have been led to see it once in my life."
While he was thanking his stars, which were already in the sky waiting for the light to go out and give them a chance, he heard the sound of weeping. It came from the malthouse, which is the most beautiful building in Sussex. So persistent was it that after he had listened to it for six minutes it seemed to Martin that he had been listening to it for six months, and for one moment he believed himself to be sitting in an orchard with his eyes shut, and warm tears from heaven falling on his face. But knowing himself to be too much given to fancies he decided to lay those ghosts by investigation, and he went up to the malthouse and looked inside.
There he found a young man flooring the barley. As he turned and re-turned it with his spade he wept so copiously above it that he was frequently obliged to pause and wipe away his tears with his arm, for he could no longer see the barley he was spreading. When the maltster had interrupted himself thus for the third occasion, Martin Pippin concluded that it was time to address him.
"Young master," said Martin, "the bitters that are brewed from your barley will need no adulterating behind the bar, and that's flat."
The maltster leaned on his spade to reply.
"There are no waters in all the world," said he, "plentiful enough to adulterate the bitterness of my despair."
"Then I would preserve these rivers for better sport," said Martin. "And if memory plays me no tricks, your name was once Robin Rue."