His store
of little narratives was in a manner inexhaustible. With them he
beguiled the hour of retirement, and with them he hastened the sun to
sink behind the western hill.
But as he grew to manly stature, and the down of years had begun to
clothe his blushing cheek, he felt a new sensation in his breast
hitherto unexperienced. He could not now behold his favourite companion
without emotion; his eye sparkled when he approached her; he watched her
gestures; he hung upon her accents; he was interested in all her
motions. Sometimes he would catch the eye of prudent age or of
sharp-sighted rivalry observing him, and he instantly became embarrassed
and confused, and blushed he knew not why. He repaired to the
neighbouring wake, in order to exchange his young lambs and his hoard of
cheeses. Imogen was not there, and in the midst of traffic, and in the
midst of frolic merriment he was conscious to a vacancy and a
listlessness for which he could not account. When he tended his flocks,
and played upon his slender pipe, he would sink in reverie, and form to
himself a thousand schemes of imaginary happiness. Erewhile they had
been vague and general. His spirit was too gentle for him not to
represent to himself a fancied associate; his heart was not narrow
enough to know so much as the meaning of a solitary happiness.
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