over, my uncle went out, and I betook myself to the barn, where I amused
myself in the straw. By this time Rover must have gone back to his maker,
for I remember as with me a large, respectable dog of the old-fashioned
mastiff-type, who endured me with a patience that amounted almost to
friendliness, but never followed me about. When I grew hungry, I went
into the house to have my afternoon-meal. It was called tea, but I knew
nothing about tea, while in milk I was a connoisseur. I could tell
perfectly to which of the cows I was indebted for the milk I happened at
any time to be drinking: Miss Martha never allowed the milks of the
different cows to be mingled.

Just as my meal was over, the sun shone with sudden brilliance into my
very eyes. The storm was breaking up, and vanishing in the west. I threw
down my spoon, and ran, hatless as usual, from the house. The sun was on
the edge of the hollow; I made straight for him. The bracken was so wet
that my legs almost seemed walking through a brook, and my body through a
thick rain. In a moment I was sopping; but to be wet was of no
consequence to me. Not for many years was I able to believe that damp
could hurt.

When I reached the top, the sun was yet some distance above the horizon,
and I had gone a good way toward him before he went down. As he sank he
sent up a wind, which blew a sense of coming dark. The wind of the sunset
brings me, ever since, a foreboding of tears: it seems to say--"Your day
is done; the hour of your darkness is at hand." It grew cold, and a
feeling of threat filled the air. All about the grave of the buried sun,
the clouds were angry with dusky yellow and splashes of gold. They
lowered tumulous and menacing. Then, lo! they had lost courage; their
bulk melted off in fierce vapour, gold and gray, and the sharp outcry of
their shape was gone. As I recall the airy scene, that horizon looks like