from that he would have been as agreeable a specimen of rustic manhood
as one would often see. A keen observer might have been inclined to
think--which was, indeed, partly the truth--that he had relinquished
his proper station in life for want of interest in it. Moreover, after
looking at him one would have hazarded the guess that good nature, and
an acuteness as extreme as it could be without verging on craft, formed
the framework of his character.

While he darned the stocking his face became rigid with thought. Softer
expressions followed this, and then again recurred the tender sadness
which had sat upon him during his drive along the highway that
afternoon. Presently his needle stopped. He laid down the stocking,
arose from his seat, and took a leathern pouch from a hook in the corner
of the van. This contained among other articles a brown-paper packet,
which, to judge from the hinge-like character of its worn folds, seemed
to have been carefully opened and closed a good many times. He sat down
on a three-legged milking stool that formed the only seat in the van,
and, examining his packet by the light of a candle, took thence an old
letter and spread it open. The writing had originally been traced on
white paper, but the letter had now assumed a pale red tinge from the
accident of its situation; and the black strokes of writing thereon
looked like the twigs of a winter hedge against a vermilion sunset. The
letter bore a date some two years previous to that time, and was signed
"Thomasin Yeobright." It ran as follows:--


DEAR DIGGORY VENN,--The question you put when you overtook me coming
home from Pond-close gave me such a surprise that I am afraid I did not
make you exactly understand what I meant. Of course, if my aunt had not
met me I could have explained all then at once, but as it was there was