There he stood pale, come out of the depths of darkness, in the hot room, blinking at the light.

No, it could not be a straw-bordered underwing.

The mowing-machine always wanted oiling.  Barnet turned it under Jacob’s window, and it creaked—­creaked, and rattled across the lawn and creaked again.

Now it was clouding over.

Back came the sun, dazzlingly.

It fell like an eye upon the stirrups, and then suddenly and yet very gently rested upon the bed, upon the alarum clock, and upon the butterfly box stood open.  The pale clouded yellows had pelted over the moor; they had zigzagged across the purple clover.  The fritillaries flaunted along the hedgerows.  The blues settled on little bones lying on the turf with the sun beating on them, and the painted ladies and the peacocks feasted upon bloody entrails dropped by a hawk.  Miles away from home, in a hollow among teasles beneath a ruin, he had found the commas.  He had seen a white admiral circling higher and higher round an oak tree, but he had never caught it.  An old cottage woman living alone, high up, had told him of a purple butterfly which came every summer to her garden.  The fox cubs played in the gorse in the early morning, she told him.  And if you looked out at dawn you could always see two badgers.  Sometimes they knocked each other over like two boys fighting, she said.

“You won’t go far this afternoon, Jacob,” said his mother, popping her head in at the door, “for the Captain’s coming to say good-bye.”  It was the last day of the Easter holidays.

Wednesday was Captain Barfoot’s day.  He dressed himself very neatly in blue serge, took his rubber-shod stick—­for he was lame and wanted two fingers on the left hand, having served his country—­and set out from the house with the flagstaff precisely at four o’clock in the afternoon.

At three Mr. Dickens, the bath-chair man, had called for Mrs. Barfoot.

“Move me,” she would say to Mr. Dickens, after sitting on the esplanade for fifteen minutes.  And again, “That’ll do, thank you, Mr. Dickens.”  At the first command he would seek the sun; at the second he would stay the chair there in the bright strip.

An old inhabitant himself, he had much in common with Mrs. Barfoot—­ James Coppard’s daughter.  The drinking-fountain, where West Street joins Broad Street, is the gift of James Coppard, who was mayor at the time of Queen Victoria’s jubilee, and Coppard is painted upon municipal watering-carts and over shop windows, and upon the zinc blinds of solicitors’ consulting-room windows.  But Ellen Barfoot never visited the Aquarium (though she had known Captain Boase who had caught the shark quite well), and when the men came by with the posters she eyed them superciliously, for she knew that she would never see the Pierrots, or the brothers Zeno, or Daisy Budd and her troupe of performing seals.  For Ellen Barfoot in her bath-chair on the esplanade was a prisoner—­ civilization’s prisoner—­all the bars of her cage falling across the esplanade on sunny days when the town hall, the drapery stores, the swimming-bath, and the memorial hall striped the ground with shadow.