To forget one’s luck of life, to forget the cark of care and withering of young fingers; not to feel, or not be moved by, all the change of thought and heart, from large young heat to the sinewy lines and dry bones of old age—­this is what I have to do ere ever I can make you know (even as a dream is known) how I loved my Lorna.  I myself can never know; never can conceive, or treat it as a thing of reason, never can behold myself dwelling in the midst of it, and think that this was I; neither can I wander far from perpetual thought of it.  Perhaps I have two farrows of pigs ready for the chapman; perhaps I have ten stones of wool waiting for the factor.  It is all the same.  I look at both, and what I say to myself is this:  “Which would Lorna choose of them?” Of course, I am a fool for this; any man may call me so, and I will not quarrel with him, unless he guess my secret.  Of course, I fetch my wit, if it be worth the fetching, back again to business.  But there my heart is and must be; and all who like to try can cheat me, except upon parish matters.

That week I could do little more than dream and dream and rove about, seeking by perpetual change to find the way back to myself.  I cared not for the people round me, neither took delight in victuals; but made believe to eat and drink and blushed at any questions.  And being called the master now, head-farmer, and chief yeoman, it irked me much that any one should take advantage of me; yet everybody did so as soon as ever it was known that my wits were gone moon-raking.  For that was the way they looked at it, not being able to comprehend the greatness and the loftiness.  Neither do I blame them much; for the wisest thing is to laugh at people when we cannot understand them.  I, for my part, took no notice; but in my heart despised them as beings of a lesser nature, who never had seen Lorna.  Yet I was vexed, and rubbed myself, when John Fry spread all over the farm, and even at the shoeing forge, that a mad dog had come and bitten me, from the other side of Mallond.

This seems little to me now; and so it might to any one; but, at the time, it worked me up to a fever of indignity.  To make a mad dog of Lorna, to compare all my imaginings (which were strange, I do assure you—­the faculty not being apt to work), to count the raising of my soul no more than hydrophobia!  All this acted on me so, that I gave John Fry the soundest threshing that ever a sheaf of good corn deserved, or a bundle of tares was blessed with.  Afterwards he went home, too tired to tell his wife the meaning of it; but it proved of service to both of them, and an example for their children.

Now the climate of this country is—­so far as I can make of it—­to throw no man into extremes; and if he throw himself so far, to pluck him back by change of weather and the need of looking after things.  Lest we should be like the Southerns, for whom the sky does everything, and men sit under a wall and watch both food and fruit come beckoning.  Their sky is a mother to them; but ours a good stepmother to us—­fearing to hurt by indulgence, and knowing that severity and change of mood are wholesome.