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He could see no such signs; the buddings of immortality were for him invisible . . . a wild protest against death filled his heart. He did not feel old. Yet he was old, or if not old, growing old. Fifty-six was only fourteen years from the allotted span, and how many men had he seen live beyond that or even to it? If they were so fortunate as to escape the poxes, plagues and fevers of youth, there were the agues, palsies and rheums of age awaiting them. He hurried his pace along the lane, as if his vigorous striding legs would show the dead leaves he walked on how far he was yet from being as they.

He came to a bend and beyond it saw a figure moving. It was a strange figure, for in the golden tricky light of the autumn noon, it looked like a large bundle of wood crawling along on human feet. Between the faggots and the feet was just visible the hem of a russet petticoat. It was a woman who went so laden—doubtless some thrifty wise old woman carrying home her fuel for the winter. His pace naturally gained on hers, and he was curious to see who she was—he enjoyed a crack with a goody, and maybe she was one of those old folk who wished him back at Leasan.