Frost came in the night and the next morning was fine and glorious; the aromatic scent of autumn mingled with that of a brushwood fire in Mrs. Simpson’s garden, and the smoke of it rose like incense to the god of harvest, straight up into a blue sky flecked with white clouds which were great brooding angels with their faces towards heaven.

When one man, meeting, said to another, ‘Fine morning!’ it was a Laus Dei that he meant, and the crimson beeches glowing upon the green country were lamps of festival.

And something of that splendour which has fired the souls of men like love and battle caught hold of Andy as he walked down the lane in the sunshine. “Oh, all ye works of the Lord—praise ye the Lord—bless Him and magnify Him for ever!” He knew how the man felt who wrote that, and was thrilled with that strange sense of nearness which men have when they sing a song together, the words swelling up; but it is not the words that move them so—it is the sense of having got a little nearer together in the immense loneliness of the Universe.

And some of this brief ecstasy was Andy’s as he walked towards Mrs. Simpson’s cottage in the sunshine.

At the turn he met Jimmy Simpson dragging a new-painted horse and cart but otherwise unattended, even by the faithful Sally. His golden curls shone in the morning sun, and he, too, seemed to come along in a sort of glory. When he reached Andy he said nothing, but looked from the piebald creature to the face high above him in breathless expectation.

“What a beauty! I never saw such a horse and cart in my life,” said Andy, who loved children enough to know what was expected of him.

The round face relaxed into smiles.

“It’s my birfday, Mith Elithabeth broughted it.”

“When?” demanded Andy, glancing eagerly up the lane. “Has she gone home?”

“Yeth,” said Jimmy. Then he corrected himself, for he only lisped now in moments of great excitement. “Yes. She went home d’reckly. She said her mummy wanted her.”

Andy bent down and touched the piebald back of the animal.

“He’s like Tommy, isn’t he?”

“Better’n Tommy,” said his owner sturdily. Then his eyes rounded more widely than ever, and he remarked—

“What a funny thing to kith a cart!”

The two young gentlemen eyed each other in the sunny lane, the one curious, the other shamefaced.

It was Andy who turned away.

“I say—let’s fill the cart with hay.” And he began to cut grass for the purpose with his penknife.

But the keen, fine morning took on its last glory because she had passed that way, while he, like a clod, had been eating bacon, and he kissed the unpleasant red paint of the cart-wheel because her fingers must have touched it. For the springtime of life breeds such follies—or what men call follies afterwards for fear of regretting them too much.

At last the game of hay-cutting came to an end, and Jimmy tramped back on his sturdy little legs, dragging his cart behind him, and as Andy watched him go safely round the turn, he looked back and shouted—

“Better’n Tommy.”

For Jimmy was a Briton of the old type.

But Andy went in with his thoughts full of Elizabeth, and he felt as we all do when we are young on a prickly sunny morning, that he must get what he wanted because he wanted it so much.

All day long while he helped to decorate the little bare church and was gay with the young ladies who assisted, and attentive to Mrs. Thorpe who brought sheaves of corn and piles of flowers and fruit over which she presided like a jolly goddess of plenty in the porch, he was thinking about Elizabeth. When Mrs. Thorpe said, “Do try one of these pears, they are so sweet,” he replied with decorum, but his heart throbbed ridiculously, “Sweet—sweet—how sweet my lady is!”

And when Rose Werrit asked if she should decorate the pulpit, and was so pleased that old Bateson had given them the red apples after all, because they were so bright and pretty—he said, “Yes, indeed—how good of you,” but even made a sort of song in his head about that—though, really, Elizabeth’s worst enemy could never have called her ‘bright.’

Then Mrs. Dixon and the Webster girls arrived about six o’clock, and the whole household went in to service excepting Phyllis, who felt at the last moment that she could not stand the heated church and preferred a quiet walk instead.

The last of the sunset was dying behind the unstained windows as the rough, country voices sang the harvest hymn, but the lamplight fell pleasantly enough upon grain and fruit and flowers, and as Andy stood there, though he did not know it, he was leading his people back to the mystic beginning of all worship. He joined hands with Brother Gulielmus, who as plain Will Ford had sung a song at many a harvest home—and farther back still, with all those who had ever felt the joy of harvest. Rooted in immemorial needs—crowned with a hope that cannot die—belonging to all men and to all creeds—no wonder the hymn of that festival floated out across the sleeping fields with a poignant joy, a desperate hopefulness, that made old Bateson at his cottage door remark—

“I’m glad I let ’em have them apples!”

And which, all unconsciously, caused the hot Primitive to reply—

“I’m glad you did!” It was only afterwards that she added: “The schoolmaster has arranged with Mr. Deane that we are to have them for our pulpit next week. So all’s well that ends well.”

Old Bateson glanced at his niece and felt a little annoyed—like all those who conquer seldom he objected to having a victory tarnished by compromise—but faintly across the fields, through the open church door, the last verse of the hymn came to them.

“I remember when they used to have a harvest supper in Thorpe’s big barn,” he said, turning into the house. “Oh, well—in another twenty years——”

“They used to drink too much at those harvest suppers,” said the niece. “And you needn’t talk—you’re a young man for your age, you know.”

Thus did old Bateson sum up all the regret and mystery of life, and thus did youth try to console him for it—but those remarks pass in a constant throb beneath our daily round; every minute some one speaks so, and some one answers.

Then silence fell over the dim countryside, and within the lighted church was a quiet murmur of prayer and praise until the congregation rustled up in their seats to bellow with a will, “Now thank we all our God,” in the hymn before the sermon. And the singing of that flooded the fields with sound again until the last echo reached the distant place where the Spirit of Ancient Revelry slept the long years through behind some bushes on a village green with scarcely ever a waking hour.

But this hymn awoke him, though it was badly sung, and so very far away. For there lingered in it something familiar that acted like a bugle-call—the dear sound of people bellowing through the night because the world was such a jolly place.

He was running in and out of the full pews, and laughing over Mr. Thorpe’s shoulder, before the first verse was finished—and both he and Mr. Thorpe had a full-throated, jovial sense of finding what they wanted in familiar company, which is not surprising when you remember how often the Spirit of Ancient Revelry had met Mr. Thorpe’s ancestors in the big barn and other places. He even stirred in the Werrits, who were so anxious and progressive and modern, a sense of something lost and found again, so that Mr. Will Werrit’s nose and ears went crimson with his exertions, and Mr. Tom Werrit felt a faint desire to wave something during the last line.

Then Mr. Banks of Millsby went up into the pulpit and began to preach about another harvest in that desolate and heart-breaking manner common to harvest festival sermons, with reference to those sheaves gathered in during the past year, which caused the ladies of the congregation, already a little emotional, to apply their handkerchiefs and think what a beautiful preacher Mr. Banks was, to be sure.

But there was a little windy sound through the church as if an autumn storm were already brewing, and every one thought “The summer’s over.” But it was not the wind; it was the sigh with which the Spirit of Ancient Revelry fled through the open door.

After the service, Mr. and Miss Banks and Mrs. Stamford and Mrs. Dixon with her daughter Irene spoke together in the porch, and gave to the occasion that air of Church and State greeting each other which the elder people of Gaythorpe still found fitting and pleasant, but the younger ones went out wondering impatiently why others should have motor-cars while they had not.

“Well, good-bye; sorry you won’t stay supper,” said Andy’s cheerful voice, and the Bankses departed in their waiting cart.

“No moon to-night—hope to see you on Wednesday next!” shouted Mr. Banks back, already on the road.

“Good-night! Good-night!”

The lanes were full of that, and of cheerful voices, for a little while, and then the stars looked down on quiet hedgerows where the dew fell silently.

Mrs. Dixon and the girls had supper with Andy, and when that lady said to Mrs. Jebb, “This is a delightful spot, isn’t it, Mrs. Jebb?” she really meant, “See what I have done for you.” And when Mrs. Jebb answered, “Delightful, but dull, of course,” she really meant. “I could get plenty of other situations, but I am glad to oblige you.”

Then Phyllis, who looked flushed and excited after the walk she had taken while they were all at church, said it was time to go. And as her suggestions were usually acted upon, they went; but while Mrs. Dixon was speaking with Andy, the two sisters had a few words together beneath the snorting of the hired motor.

“Were you out walking all the time?” said Irene.

“Yes—why not?” said Phyllis shortly. “There’s no harm in walking, is there?”

“That depends,” answered Irene.

Neither put what they said into words, and yet it got said—most clearly and definitely.

And that is where all books fail—they can only convey the unimportant word and are obliged to almost entirely leave out unspoken conversations—but it is always the unspoken conversation that matters.