e came, sickles wanted whetting, and throats
required moistening, and backs were in need of easing, and every man had
much to say, and women wanted praising. Then all returned to the other
end, with reaping-hooks beneath our arms, and dogs left to mind jackets.

But now, will you believe me well, or will you only laugh at me? For
even in the world of wheat, when deep among the varnished crispness of
the jointed stalks, and below the feathered yielding of the graceful
heads, even as I gripped the swathes and swept the sickle round them,
even as I flung them by to rest on brother stubble, through the whirling
yellow world, and eagerness of reaping, came the vision of my love, as
with downcast eyes she wondered at my power of passion. And then the
sweet remembrance glowed brighter than the sun through wheat, through my
very depth of heart, of how she raised those beaming eyes, and ripened
in my breast rich hope. Even now I could descry, like high waves in the
distance, the rounded heads and folded shadows of the wood of Bagworthy.
Perhaps she was walking in the valley, and softly gazing up at them. Oh,
to be a bird just there! I could see a bright mist hanging just above
the Doone Glen. Perhaps it was shedding its drizzle upon her. Oh, to
be a drop of rain! The very breeze which bowed the harvest to my bosom
gently, might have come direct from Lorna, with her sweet voice laden.
Ah, the flaws of air that wander where they will around her, fan her
bright cheek, play with lashes, even revel in her hair and reveal her
beauties--man is but a breath, we know, would I were such breath as
that!

But confound it, while I ponder, with delicious dreams suspended, with
my right arm hanging frustrate and the giant sickle drooped, with my
left arm bowed for clasping something more germane than wheat, and my
eyes not minding business, but intent on distant woods--confound it,
what are the men about, and why am I left vapouring? They have taken
advantage of me, the rogues! They are gone to the hedge for the
cider-jars; they have had up the sledd of bread and meat, quite softly
over the stubble, and if I can believe my eyes (so dazed with Lorna's
image), they are sitting down to an excellent dinner, before the church
clock has gone eleven!

"John Fry, you big villain!" I cried, with John hanging up in the air by
the scruff of his neck-cloth, but holding still by his knife and fork,
and a goose-leg in between his lips, "John Fry, what mea