CONCLUSION.  
A south-west wind is blowing over the plains.  It drives the “messengers” over the sky, and the sails of the windmill, and makes the dead leaves dance upon the graves.  It does much to dispel the evil effects of the foul smells and noxious gases, which are commoner yet in the little village than one might suppose.  (But it is a long time, you see, since the fever was here.)  It shows the silver lining of the willow leaves by the little river, and bends the flowers which grow in one glowing mass—like some gorgeous Eastern carpet—on Master Swift’s grave.  It rocks Jan’s sign in mid-air above the Heart of Oak, where Master Chuter is waiting upon a newly arrived guest.
 
It is the man of business.  Long has he promised to try the breezes of the plains for what he calls dyspepsia, and the artist calls “money-grubbing-on-the-brain,” but he never could find leisure, until a serious attack obliged him to do so.  But at that moment the painter could not leave London, and he is here alone.  He has not said that he knows Jan, for it amuses him to hear the little innkeeper ramble on with anecdotes of the great painter’s childhood.
 
“This ale is fine,” says the man of business.  “I never can touch beer at home.  The painter is married, you say?”
 
“He’ve been married these two year,” Master Chuter replies.  “And they do say Miss Amabel have been partial to him from a child.  He come down here, sir, soon after his father took to him, and he draad out Miss Amabel’s old white horse for her; and the butler have told me, sir, that it hangs in the library now.  It be more fit for an inn sign, sartinly, it be, but the gentry has their whims, sir, and Miss Amabel was a fine young lady.  The Squire’s moral image she be; affable and free, quite different to her ladyship.  Coffee, sir?  No, sir?  Dined, sir?  It be a fine evening, sir, if you’d like to see the church.  I’d be glad to show it you, myself, sir.  Old Solomon have got the key.”
&............