Anne Hilton got up when the sky was tinged with the sunrise, feeling anew the security of recovered daylight after the stillness of the lonely house during the night. There was little to put in order about her house. "Where no oxen are the crib is clean," she would often quote. There was absolute silence in the cottage, and as she opened the windows she saw the first thin smoke, the incense of labour, rising from other houses. The garden was fragrant with flowers, soon to be gathered and made into bunches for the market. The increasing glory of the sky promised another fine day for the harvest. She read the text on the Calendar and made it the subject of her prayer, which she uttered aloud with great fervour. Then she went down the stairs, which entered directly into the kitchen, and lit the fire for her breakfast. The day following was market-day, the day on which she depended for her living, and to-day the butter for which she was justly celebrated had to be made. Beyond the kitchen was a dairy with a stone shelf round three sides of it, a churn in the middle, large earthenware mugs of cream, and a great tub of buttermilk in the corner. The sunlight never fell on this side of the house until late afternoon, so that, though the day was already hot, the shadow of the dairy and the yard beyond with its shed for tools looked tranquil and cool. Taking one of the tin pails and a milking-stool, she set off across the fields to the pasture in which her two cows were grazing. Everything within her sight as she passed--hedges, grass, corn, even the trodden path across the field--gleamed with the radiance of the risen sun. The sky, intolerably splendid and untroubled by clouds, was filled by the sun. Even the thin smoke from the cottages flickered and was illuminated. The trees had the leaves of Paradise. The world seemed to hold nothing but the sun, and to be bewildered.