A SOUTH-WEST wind is blowing over the plains. It drives the “messengers” over the sky, and the sails of the windmill, and makes the dead leaves dance upon the graves. It does much to dispel the evil effects of the foul smells and noxious gases, which are commoner yet in the little village than one might suppose. (But it is a long time, you see, since the fever was here.) It shows the silver lining of the willow leaves by the little river, and bends the flowers which grow in one glowing mass—like some gorgeous Eastern carpet—on Master Swift’s grave. It rocks Jan’s sign in mid-air above the Heart of Oak, where Master Chuter is waiting upon a newly arrived guest. It is the man of business. Long has he promised to try the breezes of the plains for what he calls dyspepsia, and the artist calls “money-grubbing-on-the-brain,” but he never could find leisure, until a serious attack obliged him to do so. But at that moment the painter could not leave London, and he is here alone. He has not said that he knows Jan, for it amuses him to hear the little innkeeper ramble on with anecdotes of the great painter’s childhood. “This ale is fine,” says the man of business. “I never can touch beer at home. The painter is married, you say?” “He’ve been married these two year,” Master Chuter replies. “And they do say Miss Amabel have been partial to him from a child. He come down here, sir, soon after his father took to him, and he draad out Miss Amabel’s old white horse for her; and the butler have told me, sir, that it hangs in the library now. It be more fit for an inn sign, sartinly, it be, but the gentry has their whims, sir, and Miss Amabel was a fine young lady. The Squire’s moral image she be; affable and free, quite different to her ladyship. Coffee, sir? No, sir? Dined, sir? It be a fine evening, sir, if you’d like to see the church. I’d be glad to show it you, myself, sir. Old Solomon have got the key.” In the main street of the village even the man of business strolls. There is no hurrying in this atmosphere. It is a matter of time to find Old Solomon, and of more time to make him hear when he is found, and of most time for him to find the key when he hears. But time is not money to the merchant just now, and he watches the western sky patiently, and is made sleepy by the breeze. When at last they saunter under the shadow of the gray church tower, his eye is caught by the mass of color, out of which springs a high cross of white marble, whose top is just flushed by the setting sun. It is of fine design and workmanship, and marks the grave where the great man’s schoolmaster sleeps near his wife and child. Hard by, Master Chuter shows the “fever monument,” and the names of Master Lake’s children. And then, as Daddy Solomon has fumbled the door open, they pass into the church. The east end has been restored, the innkeeper says, by the Squire, under the advice of his son-in-law.