sir," Adam retorted, "I say--so be it, so
long as I ain't near the wrong end of it, for the way you do 'ave of
flourishin' an' a whirlin' that theer fork, is fair as-tonishin', I do
declare it be."

"Why you see, Adam, there are some born with a leaning towards
pitch-forks, as there are others born to the pen, and the--er--palette,
and things, but for me, Adam, the pitch-fork, every time!" said Bellew,
mopping his brow.

"If you was to try an' 'andle it more as if it _was_ a pitchfork now,
Mr. Belloo, sir--" suggested Adam, and, not waiting for Bellew's
laughing rejoinder, he chirrupped to the horses, and the great waggon
creaked away with its mountainous load, surmounted by Adam's grinning
visage, and Small Porges' golden curls, and followed by the rest of the
merry-voiced hay-makers.

Now it was, that turning his head, Bellew espied Anthea watching him,
whereupon he shouldered his fork, and coming to where she sat upon a
throne of hay, he sank down at her feet with a luxurious sigh. She had
never seen him without a collar, before, and now she could not but
notice how round, and white, and powerful his neck was, and how the
muscles bulged upon arm, and shoulder, and how his hair curled in small,
damp rings upon his brow.

"It is good," said he, looking up into the witching face, above him,
"yes, it is very good to see you idle--just for once."

"And I was thinking it was good to see you work,--just for once."

"Work!" he exclaimed, "my dear Miss Anthea, I assure you I have become a
positive glutton for work. It has become my earnest desire to plant
things, and grow things, and chop things with axes; to mow things with
scythes. I dream of pastures, and ploughs, of pails and pitchforks, by
night; and, by day, reaping-hooks, hoes, and rakes, are in my thoughts
continually,--which all goes to show the effect of this wonderful air of
Arcadia. Indeed, I am as full of suppressed energy, these days, as Adam
is of the 'Old Adam.' And, talking of Adam reminds me that he has
solemnly pledged himself to initiate me into the mysteries of swinging a
scythe to-morrow morning at--five o'clock! Yes indeed, my heart bounds
responsive to the swish of a scythe in thick grass, and my soul sits
enraptured upon a pitch-fork."

"How ridiculous you are!" she laughed.

"And how perfectly content!" he added.

"Is anyone ever quite content?" she sighed, glancing down at him,
wistful-eyed.

"Not unless they have found Arcadia," he ans