"I get so little time, miss. What day will 'ee come to the varm?"
"Next Saturday, if I may,"
"That's zettled. I'm glad you be coming zoon; the colour of the young grass be wonderful."
"Indeed!" remarked Mavis, as she looked at him, surprised.
"That's the advantage of varming," continued Trivett: "you zee natur in zo many colours and zo many moods."
Thus talking, they reached the churchyard gates, where Mavis released Jill, who was delighted at being set at liberty.
Mavis said goodbye to Trivett and recrossed the churchyard on her way to the river. As she walked, she wondered at Trivett's strange conjunction of pursuits; also, if he were as good a farmer as he was a musician.
She found the part of the river nearest to the church crowded with holiday bathers, so turned aside in the direction of her nook, where she was tolerably certain of getting quiet. Arrived there, she found her expectation was not belied. She felt dazed and tired with the emotions she had experienced; she reclined on the ground to look lazily at the beauty spread so bountifully about her.
Nature was now at her best. She was like a fair young mother radiant with the joys attaching to the birth of her firstborn. The striking of the quarter on the church clock was borne to her on the light wind; she heard a rumble and caught a glimpse through the young foliage of the white panelled carriages of a train speeding to Weymouth.
She settled herself for a repose of suspended thought, thankful that there was no prospect of her peace being interfered with. She had not lain long when she was disturbed by a plashing of water, at which Jill was vigorously barking.