, had
rested under a tree by the little river, and Jan and Marie had shared
with their father and mother the bread and cheese which had been
brought from home for their noon meal. Then they had taken a nap in the
shade, for it is a long day that begins and ends with the midsummer
sun. The bees hummed so drowsily in the clover that Mother Van Hove
also took forty winks, while Father Van Hove led Pier to the river for
a drink; and tied him where he could enjoy the rich meadow grass for a
while.

And now the long day was nearly over. The last level rays of the
disappearing sun glistened on the red roofs of the village, and the
windows of the little houses gave back an answering flash of light. On
the steeple of the tiny church the gilded cross shone like fire against
the gray of the eastern sky.

The village clock struck seven and was answered faintly by the sound of
distant chimes from the Cathedral of Malines, miles away across the
plain.

For some time Father Van Hove had been standing on top of the load,
catching the sheaves which Mother Van Hove tossed up to him, and
stowing them away in the farm-wagon, which was already heaped high with
the golden grain. As the clock struck, he paused in his labor, took off
his hat, and wiped his brow. He listened for a moment to the music of
the bells, glanced at the western sky, already rosy with promise of the
sunset, and at the weather-cock above the cross on the church-steeple.
Then he looked down at the sheaves of wheat, still standing like tiny
tents across the field.

"It's no use, Mother," he said at last; "we cannot put it all in
to-night, but the sky gives promise of a fair day to-morrow, and the
weather-cock, also, points east. We can finish in one more load; let us
go home now."

"The clock struck seven," cried Jan. "I counted the strokes."

"What a scholar is our Janke!" laughed his mother, as she lifted the
last sheaf of wheat on her fork and tossed it at Father Van Hove's
feet. "He can count seven when it is supper-time! As for me, I do not
need a clock; I can tell the time of day by the ache in my bones; and,
besides that, there is Bel at the pasture bars waiting to be milked and
bellowing to call me."

"I don't need a clock either," chimed in Marie, patting her apron
tenderly; "I can tell time by my stomach. It's a hundred years since we
ate our lunch; I know it is."

"Come, then, my starvelings," said Mother Van Hove, pinching Marie's
fat cheek, "and yo