I tried to explain. Living in a village narrows one; the outside world is gradually forgotten, and the opinions of ignoramuses gradually come to matter. I found myself beginning to worry over the adverse criticisms of villagers who could not read nor write. "You've got neurasthenia," said Watterson; "what you want to do is to settle down on a farm for six months; live in the open air and do nothing strenuous. Don't try to think, and for God's sake don't worry. Read _John Bull_ and _The Pink 'Un_, and chuck all the weekly intellectual reviews. And ... most important of all, fall in love with a rosy-cheeked daughter of the soil." I have written to Frank Thomson, the farmer of Eagleshowe, asking if he still wants a cattleman. His last man was conscripted, and if the job is still vacant Frank will give it to me. To-night I sit chuckling. The idea of a dismissed dominie's returning to a village to feed cattle is rich. The village will extract much amusement out of it. I imagine Peter Mitchell looking over the dyke and crying: "Weel, dominie, and how is the experiment in eddication gettin' on?" * * * I sit at a bright peat fire in Frank Thomson's bothy. I arrived at three o'clock and no bairn was about the station. I was glad, for I did not want to meet anyone. There was a queer feeling of shame in returning; I feared to meet anyone's glance. To return a few days after an affecting farewell is the last word in anticlimax; it is so horribly undramatic a thing to do. I wish that Lazarus had kept a diary after his resurrection; I fancy that quite a few people resented his return. I cannot write more to-night; I am tired out. The most tiring thing in the world is to rise in one place and go to bed in another. * * * I was going out to fetch the cows this afternoon when I espied three girls in white pinafores at the top of the field. They waved their hands and ran down to meet me. "We'll help you to take in the cows," cried Janet. They accepted my return without even the slightest curiosity, and I was glad. "Righto!" I said, "but wait a bit. I want to sketch the farm first." I sat down on the bank and the three settled themselves round me. "Please, sir," said Ellen, "Mr. Macdonald's a nice man." I did not want to discuss Macdonald with my bairns, and I sketched in silence. I think they forgot all about my presence after that; in the old days they used to talk to each other as if I weren't there. Once they discussed likely sweethearts in the village for me, and I am sure they forgot that I was there. "He's nice to the lassies, Ellen," said Jean, "but not to the boys." "What did he strap Jim Jackson for?" asked Ellen. "Aw dinna ken," said Janet, "but he was needin' the strap. Jim Jackson's a cheeky wee thing." "Eh!" said Jean, "haven't we to sit awful quiet, Jan?"