Never was such a harvest—such crops—such long splendid days—such great yellow moons. Even now the folk tell of it when harvest-time comes round.

"Ah," say they, and shake their heads, "that were a harvest an' no mistake, an' long, an' long will it be afore us sees another such a one."

Through the great white fields of wheat the binders sang from dew-dry to dew-fall, and over the hills rang the call of the reapers.

All hands were called to the gathering, the gipsies from the hedge and the shepherd from his early fold, and the stooks were built over the stubble and drawn away into stacks, and still the skies shone cloudless and the great moons rose over the dusk. Never was such a harvest. And little we at home saw of Tommy in these days, save when, late at night, he would wander back from one and another field, lean and sunburnt and glad of sleep. One day the poet tracked him to the harvesting on the down-side fields, and found him in his shirt-sleeves, stooking with the best.

For a little while the poet, under considerable pressure from Tommy, assisted also, but the unaccustomed toil soon became distasteful, and he retired to the shade of a stook for purposes of rest and meditation.

And here, as he sat, he was joined by the same genial shepherd whom they had met on the day they trod the downs to the Roman ruins.

"Deserted the flocks, then?" asked the poet.

The shepherd grinned.

"'Ess, sir. Folded 'em early, do 'ee see, sir, an' come down to make some money at the harvest, sir."

He paused to fill his mouth with bread, taking at the same time a long pull of cold tea.

"Hungry work, sir, it be, this harvest work."

"It must undoubtedly stimulate the appetite, as you say."

"'Ess, sir, that it do. But it's good work fer the likes o' I, sir, it be, means more money, doan't 'ee see, sir; not as I bees in want o' money, sir, but it's always welcome, sir. No, sir, I needn't do no work fer a year an' more, sir, an' live like a gen'lman arl the time, too, sir."

"You have saved, then?"

"'Ess, that I have, an' there's a many as knows it, sir, an' asked I to marry 'em, sir, too, they 'as, but not I, sir. I sticks to what I makes, sir. An' look 'ee 'ere, sir, money's easy spent along o' they gals, sir, ben't it, onst they gets their 'ands on it?"

The poet looked at him reflectively.

"They ask you then, do they?"

"'Ess, sir, fower or five on 'em, sir. But I wants none on 'em, sir, an' I tells 'em straight, sir."

The poet sighed.

"It must save a lot of trouble to—when the suggestion comes from the fairer side."

The shepherd wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Fower or five on 'em," he observed, meditatively.

"Dear, dear, what a—what a conqueror of hearts you must be!"

The shepherd looked at him a little dubiously.

"Fower or five on 'em," he repeated. "An' one on 'em earnin' eighteen shillin' a week an' forty pound laid by. An' I walked out wi' 'er a bit, I did, sir, but I warn't 'avin' none on 'er when she asked I to marry 'er, an' I told 'er, an' my parents, they was main angry, too, wi' me, they was, sir.

"But there y'are, sir. I didn't want none o' 'er forty pounds, sir, an' you bees got to stick to 'em wen you marries 'em, ben't 'ee, sir?"

The shepherd shook his head.

"No, sir, I don't believe in marryin' no one as you doesn't kind o' like, do 'ee see, sir."

The poet nodded.

"An excellent sentiment," he said.

"Money ben't everything sir, bee 't, as I told 'em, sir, all on 'em. Money ben't everythin'."

"But isn't it—isn't it a little embarrassing to be sought in matrimony by four or five ladies?"

The shepherd paused, between two bites, and looked at the poet, in some bewilderment.

"If 'ee means worrittin', sir—it bees a deal more worrittin' to ask 'em, yourself, sir—fower or five on 'em."

He rose and lurched off to join his comrades, and the poet looked after him, with something of envy in his eyes.

"O you fortunate man," he murmured, as he lay back, watching the busy scene, with half-closed eyes.

Presently he half started to his feet, for at the far end of the field he could see Tommy talking to two newcomers, a tall, slender figure, with a carriage and poise possessed by one alone, and a little girl in a smock frock.

He rose and wandered slowly down the field.

"Four or five," he murmured, "and they asked him—O the lucky, lucky man—they asked him. Dear me, dear me."

"A lovely evening, Miss Gerald."

Mollie looked up, with a smile, from the sheaf she was binding.

"Isn't it jolly—it must be a glad life these open-air folk lead, don't you think?"

"The best of lives—but they don't know it."

Mollie rose, and tossed back a wisp or two of hair from her forehead.

"I am sure I should love it, if it were my lot—the white stems on my arms and the warm sun on my face, and the songs in the wagon, at dusk. Listen to that man singing there—I'm sure he is just glad of life."

"A strange man," said the poet, following her gaze. "A most curious, fortunate person."

"You know him?"

"A little—he is quite a Napoleon of hearts."

Mollie laughed.

"He doesn't look even a little bit romantic."

"Oh, he isn't. I fancy the romance, if there is any, must be usually on the other side. He has had four or five offers of marriage."

"What a perfectly horrid idea."

The poet stroked his chin.

"Yet think of the confusion and questioning of heart, and of the hours of agony that it would save a diffident man."

"He doesn't look diffident."

"He may not be. I merely make a supposition."

"I think it's an appalling idea."

"Oh, I know, I know, and yet I can imagine it a bridge to paradise."

"I don't understand."

"Then, suppose a man so stormed by love that by it all life has been renewed and made beautiful for him; and suppose this man so utterly and in every way unsuited to its realisation, that though all there is in him urges him to speak of it, yet he dare not lest he should lose even the cold solace of friendship. Do you not see how it might——?"

Mollie's grey eyes looked him straight in the face.

"No," she said. "It would be better for him never to speak, than to lose his ideal, as he assuredly would."

"You—you would bid him never speak?"

Mollie laughed.

"It depends on so many things—on how and why he was unsuitable, and by whose standard he gauged his shortcoming."

"His own."

"He might be wrong."

"Who could know better?"

"The girl he asked."

"You would bid him ask?"

She was silent; then,

"If—if he were quite sure the girl were worthy," she said, in a low voice.

The poet held out his hands.

"Mollie—my dear, my dear," he said.

"And she's quite young, too," observed Tommy, as they walked home in the starlight.

The poet waved his hand.

"Love laughs at age—takes no account of it," he said.

"Hurrah," cried Tommy.