He woke long hours afterwards, wondering a little at first, feeling somewhat stiff. The air was warm and still, tremulous with crickets--thrilled through with the shaken baubles of the summer's myriad little jesters. In his sleep he had rolled over; his face was to heaven. The sky was faint with starlight; the Milky Way was a road of diamond sand; the great constellations had hung themselves with solemn jewels; down near the rim of the world watched far-spaced large earnest beacon-lights--but above, the tiniest irresponsible stars twinkled in and out, like shining ants in ant-hills. He looked, almost wondering why his eyes felt so queer--sore besides heavy; why his breast felt so heavy. He rose sitting; he was on a hillock. Like an opaque reproduction of the transparent, lightsome sky looked the ground about him, which the scythe had this season respected; it was dark dotted with daisies. He rubbed his aching head a little, then lay back again, the grass shooting coolly up along his cheeks. After the sound, dreamless sleep of utter exhaustion from which he had waked, because he had drained it to satisfaction, his head was numbed, but, the little it worked, clear in its working; his heart was sore, but quieted. Something had changed; all wore another aspect; all seemed farther removed. Hours had gone by already, a month would go--a year--fifteen years. This would be lived out of memory. If it is realized that a thing must cease, has it not begun to die already? At the first one must be patient, and take suffering as a matter of course. He stretched his limbs wearily, not entirely deceived by himself, nor unaware of depths of heartache under this film of philosophy that had scummed them over in sleep. He drew his hot palms over the grass; his hand came upon the parcel that he had not dared to leave behind nor to open, that he never would have the strength to open--and his philosophy was severely shaken. His heart was near bursting out afresh; he laid his face on the wretched, soft, dead little bundle, and agonized.