Often when he awoke to the early summer daybreak and saw through his attic-window the grey shadows of the sheep still and long on the slope above the farmstead, his ear was wanting something, asking for something; for the murmur of the sea never reached this inland valley.

And he would lie and long for the chirruping of the two children in the next room and the drawing of bolts and clatter of milk-pails below stairs.
He had plenty to eat, and that plenty simple and good, and clean linen to sleep between.

The kitchen was his except on Saturday nights, when Mrs.Joll and Lizzie tubbed the children there, and then he would carry his books off to the best parlour or stroll around the farm with Mr.Joll and discuss the stock.

There were no loose rails in Mr.Joll's gates, no farm implements lying out in the weather to rust.

Mr.Joll worked early and late, and his shoulders had a tell-tale stoop--for he was a man in the prime of life, perhaps some five years older than his wife.
One Saturday evening he unburdened his heart to Taffy.