But here is the golden autumn, its lustre slowly growing dim under the touch of approaching winter; there are the green fields and the red ploughed lands—they are just as they looked long ago, although his eyes see them through the sad haze which separates him from the past. There are the sounds of the cattle, the ripple of the river, and the rustle of the trees—sounds to which he gave no particular heed in the old time, and now they are like the voices of welcoming friends.
So the present steps by us; pain and sorrow plant milestones on our way; by-and-by the eye glances tenderly backward and over them, and in old age we hear the voices of our youth.
‘Good-afternoon, Mr Beecham. Do you think it will rain?’
He lifted his head, and bowed to Madge and Philip as they were about to pass over the stile. He looked up at the sky.
‘I am afraid it will rain; but you will be home before it begins, I think.’
Philip gave her his hand; she mounted the three foot-worn wooden steps and descended on the meadow side.
‘I hope you will always have a strong hand to help you over the stiles, Miss Heathcote,’ he said, smiling; but there seemed to be as much of earnest as of jest in his meaning.
‘I believe she may fairly count upon that, Mr Beecham,’ answered Philip.
‘The pity is, we so seldom find what we count upon,’ said Mr Beecham, shaking his head.
‘Then we must make the best of what we do find,’ replied Philip cheerfully, ‘and scramble over somehow without a helping hand.’