As he was in the country, however, he resolved
to make the best of it, and enjoy himself for a week. For his asserted
dislike to the country, though genuine at the time, was anything but
natural to him. So every day he climbed to the top of one or other of
the hills which inclosed the valley, and was rewarded with fresh vigour
and renewed joy. He had not learned to read Wordsworth; yet not a wind
blew through a broom-bush, but it blew a joy from it into his heart. He
too was a prodigal returned at least into _the vestibule_ of his
Father's house. And the Father sent the servants out there to minister
to him; and Nature, the housekeeper, put the robe of health upon him,
and gave him new shoes of strength, and a ring, though not the Father's
white stone. The delights of those spring days were endless to him
whose own nature was budding with new life. Familiar with all the
cottage ways, he would drop into any _hoosie_ he came near about his
dinnertime, and asking for a _piece_ (of oat-cake) and a _coguie o'
milk_, would make his dinner off those content, and leave a trifle
behind him in acknowledgment. But he would always contrive that as the
gloamin began to fall, he should be near Howglen, that he might inquire
after his friend.
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