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Updated: May 8, 2025
The barton-gate slammed again, and in two or three minutes a something became visible, rising out of the fog in that quarter. The shape revealed itself as that of a woman having a young and agile gait. Her face was of the hereditary type among families down in these parts: sweet in expression, perfect in hue, and somewhat irregular in feature. Her eyes were of a liquid brown.
The cows jumped wildly over the five-barred barton-gate, maddened by the gad-fly; Dairyman Crick kept his shirt-sleeves permanently rolled up from Monday to Saturday; open windows had no effect in ventilation without open doors, and in the dairy-garden the blackbirds and thrushes crept about under the currant-bushes, rather in the manner of quadrupeds than of winged creatures.
The gold of the summer picture was now gray, the colours mean, the rich soil mud, and the river cold. Over the barton-gate the dairyman saw them, and came forward, throwing into his face the kind of jocularity deemed appropriate in Talbothays and its vicinity on the re-appearance of the newly-married.
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