I was on a hard dusty glaring road, shut in by dusty hedges on either side.

Not a breath of air was stirring; not a bird sang; on the vast sky not a cloud appeared.
If the vertical sun had poured down water instead of light and heat on me my clothing could not have clung to me more uncomfortably.

Coming at length to a group of two or three small cottages at the roadside, I went into one and asked for something to quench my thirst--cider or milk.
There was only water to be had, but it was good to drink, and the woman of the cottage was so pretty and pleasant that I was glad to rest an hour and talk with her in her cool kitchen.

There are English counties where it would perhaps be said of such a woman that she was one in a thousand; but the Devonians are a comely race.

In that blessed county the prettiest peasants are not all diligently gathered with the dew on them and sent away to supply the London flower-market.