A sack half filled was on the ground close to the trunk of the oak, and by it was a heap of dead sticks, to be presently carried home to boil the kettle.  Two brown urchins assisted them, and went where the women could not go, crawling under the thorns into the hedge, and creeping along the side of the steep bank, gathering acorns that had fallen into the mouths of the rabbit holes, or that were lying under the stoles.  Out of sight under the bushes they could do much as they liked, looking for fallen nuts instead of acorns, or eating a stray blackberry, while their mothers rooted about among the grass and leaves of the meadow.  Such continual stooping would be weary work for any one not accustomed to it.  As they worked from tree to tree they did not observe the colours of the leaves, or the wood-pigeons, or the pheasant looking along the edge of the ditch on the opposite side of the field.  If they paused it was to gossip or to abuse the boys for not bringing more acorns to the sack.

But when the boys, hunting in the hedge, descried the curate in the distance and came back with the news, the two women were suddenly interested.  The pheasants, the wood-pigeons, or the coloured leaves were not worthy of a glance.  To see a gentleman up to his ankles in mud was quite an attraction.  The one stood with her lap half-full of acorns; the other with a basket on her arm.  The two urchins lay down on the ground, and peered from behind a thorn stole, their brown faces scarcely distinguishable from the brown leaves, except for their twinkling eyes.  The puddle was too wide to step across, as the women had said, nor was there any way round it.

The curate looked all round twice, but he was not the man to go back.  He tucked up his troupers nearly to the knee—­he wore them short always—­and stepped into the water.  At this the urchins could barely suppress a shout of delight—­they did, however, suppress it—­and craned forward to see him splash.  The curate waded slowly to the middle, getting deeper and deeper, and then suddenly found firmer footing, and walked the rest of the way with the water barely over his boots.  After he was through he cleansed his boots on a wisp of grass and set off at a good pace, for the ground past the pool began to rise, and the lane was consequently drier.  The women turned again to their acorns, remarking, in a tone with something like respect in it, ‘He didn’t stop for the mud, you:  did a’?’

Presently the curate reached the highway with its hard surface, and again increased his pace.  The hedges here were cut each side, and as he walked rapidly, leaning forward, his shovel-hat and shoulders were visible above them, and his coat tails floated in the breeze of his own progress.  His heavy boots—­they were extremely thick and heavy, though without nails—­tramped, tramped, on the hard road.  With a stout walking-stick in one hand, and in the other a book, he strode forward, still more swiftly as it seemed at every stride.