CHAPTER I.

THE FARMER'S WIFE.


It is an evening in June, and the skies that have been weeping of late,
owing to some calamity best known to themselves, have suddenly dried
their eyes, and called up a smile to enliven their gloomy countenances.
The farmers, who have been shaking their heads at sight of the unmown
grass, and predicting a bad hay-harvest, are beginning to brighten up
with the weather, and to consult upon the propriety of mowing to-morrow.
The barometer is gently tapped by many a sturdy hand, and the result is
favourable; so that there are good prospects of a few weeks' sunshine to
atone for the late clouds.

Sunshine: how gracious it is just now! Down yonder in the west, that
ancient of days, the sun throws around him his evening glory, and right
royally he does it. The rain-covered meadows glow beneath it, like so
many lakes--the river looks up rejoicing, and the distant mountains are
wrapped in garments dyed in the old king's own regal colours. The woods
look as smooth and glossy as the braided locks of maidens prepared for
conquests; and the roads and paths that wind here and there amongst the
trees, are as gay as little streamlets in the sun's reflected light.

Suddenly a rainbow leaps, as it were, out of the river, and spans, with