which escapes care, with the present which has nothing to do with the
past or the future, with that day sufficient unto itself, that day
dangerous for those whose feet are held fast by the toils of the
years.

Wesley sped across a field which was like a field of green glory. He
saw a hollow like a nest, blue with violets, and all his thoughts
leaped with irresponsive joy. He crossed a brook on rocky stones, as
if he were crossing a song. A bird sang in perfect tune with his
mood. He was bound for a place which had a romantic interest for him:
the unoccupied parsonage, which he could occupy were he supplied with
a salary and had a wife. He loved to sit on the back veranda and
dream. Sometimes he had company. Brookville was a hot little village,
with a long line of hills cutting off the south wind, but on that
back veranda of the old parsonage there was always a breeze.
Sometimes it seemed mysterious to Wesley, that breeze. It never
failed in the hottest days. Now that the parsonage was vacant, women
often came there with their needlework of an afternoon, and sat and
sewed and chatted. Wesley knew of the custom, and had made them
welcome. But sometimes of a morning a girl came. Wesley wondered if
she would be there that morning. After he had left the field, he
plunged knee-deep through the weedage of his predecessor's garden,
and heart-deep into luxuriant ranks of dewy vegetables which he, in
the intervals of his mental labors, should raise for his own table.
Wesley had an inherent love of gardening which he had never been in a
position to gratify. Wesley was, in fancy, eating his own green peas
and squashes and things when he came in sight of the back veranda. It
was vacant, and his fancy sank in his mind like a plummet of lead.
However, he approached, and the breeze of blessing greeted him like a
presence.