grotesquely painted face, delineating not only the hours and days
but the lunar months, and possessing a sonorous chime which just
now struck eight with a boom as deep as that of a cathedral bell.
The sound appeared to startle the old farmer with a kind of shock,
for he rose from his chair and grasped his stick, looking about
him as though for the moment uncertain of his bearings.

"How fast the hours go by!" he muttered, dreamily. "When we're
young they don't count--but when we're old we know that every hour
brings us nearer to the end-the end, the end of all! Another night
closing in--and the last load cleared from the field--Innocent!"

The name broke from his lips like a cry of suffering, and she ran
to him trembling.

"Dad, dear, what is it?"

He caught her outstretched hands and held them close.

"Nothing--nothing!" he answered, drawing his breath quick and
hard--"Nothing, lass! No pain--no--not that! I'm only frightened!
Frightened!--think of it!--me frightened who never knew fear! And
I--I wouldn't tell it to anyone but you--I'm afraid of what's
coming--of what's bound to come! 'Twould always have come, I know
--but I never thought about it--it never seemed real! It never
seemed real--"

Here the door opened, admitting a flood of cheerful light from the
outside passage, and Robin Clifford entered.