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was still broad summer, but there was a taste of autumn in the air, in the milky, vaporous sunshine, the over-ripeness of the corn, and the fruity essence of the atmosphere. A warm soft wind blew from the sea and carried along a procession of drowsy clouds, whose shadows floated in tortoiseshell tints over the wheat; the whole cornfield seemed at times to flow upwards and follow the clouds over the hill. The farmhouse was Campbell’s home at that time. He could see the men building a rick and tossing the sheaves in a slow, rhythmic measure, and he felt a passing desire to join them at their immemorial rustic labour. A large drove of cattle was reluctantly passing along the road below the hillside. From the distance they looked like vivid parti-coloured waves moving slowly through the valley, with an occasional glimpse of head and horns emerging from the ruddy-tinted mass. He longed, too, momentarily, to paint those rich reds and browns and white splashes of colour which made such a fine contrast to the faded greens and yellows of the landscape. They swayed slowly onwards, lowing as they went, and their loud, mingled lament came on the wind with a deep orchestral effect. All the summer pleasantness came back to Campbell as he looked at the little sketch in the after-time,