close to them to disturb them; but he saw them plainly walk close
together up the road in the twilight of the summer evening, the tall,
light-haired Mildred, and the shorter, dark-haired Carlia; and the child
in Dorian seemed to vanish, and the man in him asserted himself in
thought and feelings which it would have been hard for him to describe
in words.




CHAPTER FOUR.


Indian summer lay drowsily over the land. It had come late that season,
but its rare beauty compensated for its tardiness. Its golden mellowness
permeating the hazy air, had also, it seems, crept into the heart of
Dorian Trent. The light coating of frost which each morning lay on the
grass, had by noon vanished, and now the earth was warm and dry.

Dorian was plowing, and he was in no great haste with his work. He did
not urge his horses, for they also seemed imbued with the languidness of
the season. He let them rest frequently, especially at the end of the
furrow where there was a grassy bank on which the plowman could lie
prone on his back and look into the dreamy distances of the hills or up
into the veiling clouds.

Dorian could afford to take it a little easy that afternoon, so he
thought. The summer's work was practically over: the wheat had been
thrashed; the hay was in the stacks; the potatoes were in the pit;
the corn stood in Indian wigwam bunches in the yard; the fruit and