Towards the hour of noon Harry Hodson, of Upcourt Farm, was slowly ascending the long slope that led to his dwelling.  In his left hand he carried a hare, which swung slightly to and fro as he stepped out, and the black-tipped ears rubbed now and then against a bunch of grass.  His double-barrel was under his right arm.  Every day at the same hour Harry turned towards home, for he adhered to the ways of his fathers and dined at half-past twelve, except when the stress of harvest, or some important agricultural operation, disturbed the usual household arrangements.  It was a beautiful October day, sunny and almost still, and, as he got on the high ground, he paused and looked round.  The stubbles stretched far away on one side, where the country rose and fell in undulations.  On the distant horizon a column of smoke, broadening at the top, lifted itself into the sky; he knew it was from the funnel of a steam-plough, whose furnace had just been replenished with coal.  The appearance of the smoke somewhat resembled that left by a steamer at sea when the vessel is just below the horizon.  On the other hand were wooded meadows, where the rooks were cawing—­some in the oaks, some as they wheeled round in the air.  Just beneath him stood a row of wheat ricks—­his own.  His gaze finally rested upon their conical roofs with satisfaction, and he then resumed his walk.

Even as he moved he seemed to bask in the sunshine; the sunshine pouring down from the sky above, the material sunshine of the goodly wheat ricks, and the physical sunshine of personal health and vigour.  His walk was the walk of a strong, prosperous man—­each step long, steady, and firm, but quite devoid of haste.  He was, perhaps, forty years of age, in the very prime of life, and though stooping a little, like so many countrymen, very tall, and built proportionately broad across the shoulders and chest.  His features were handsome—­perhaps there was a trace of indolence in their good-humoured expression—­and he had a thick black beard just marked with one thin wavy line of grey.  That trace of snow, if anything, rather added to the manliness of his aspect, and conveyed the impression that he was at the fulness of life when youth and experience meet.  If anything, indeed, he looked too comfortable, too placid.  A little ambition, a little restlessness, would perhaps have been good for him.

By degrees he got nearer to the house; but it was by degrees only, for he stayed to look over every gate, and up into almost every tree.  He stopped to listen as his ear caught the sound of hoofs on the distant road, and again at the faint noise of a gun fired a mile away.  At the corner of a field a team of horses—­his own—­were resting awhile as the carter and his lad ate their luncheon.  Harry stayed to talk to the man, and yet again at the barn door to speak to his men at work within with the winnowing machine.  The homestead stood on an eminence, but was hidden by elms and sycamores, so that it was possible to pass at a distance without observing it.