usual, were stuck into the armholes of his waistcoat, while he drummed upon his chest with his fingers, and gave his morning glance round about the village. From his door he could overlook almost the whole village; he could smell what was boiling and frying on every stove, and decide at once whether the coffee beans or the spices were bought in his shop. Veilby only consisted of seven or eight farms and a few cottages. The farms were all built on one and the same pattern, of the same dull yellow brick, with a long row of tiresome windows looking towards the pond, the same high cement plinth and a slate roof. They had a small strip of garden either in front or at the side of each, with a few newly planted trees like broomsticks, giving neither shelter nor shade. The whole village had been destroyed by fire in a single night a few years ago. Only the church, the parsonage, and a few high lying cottages had been spared. Although it was only seven o'clock the sun was quite hot. There was not a cloud in the sky, and the slightest puff of wind raised a cloud of dust over the village and the adjoining fields. The grass on the dykes round the gardens, and especially the high hawthorn hedge round the parsonage, looked as if they had been white-washed; the surface of the water in the village pond was covered with an oily film, which glittered in the sun with all the colours of the rainbow. A man was polishing harness in one of the gateways; and by the
