countless tattered streamers. In the field near the house her father
and three or four labourers were working with poles and ropes, hatless,
their hair and beards flying, staving up a great bulging hayrick. Dolly
watched them for a moment, and then, stooping her head and rounding her
shoulders, with one hand up to her little black straw hat, she staggered
off across the fields.

Adam Wilson was at work always on a particular part of the hillside, and
hither it was that she bent her steps. He saw the trim, dapper figure,
with its flying skirts and hat-ribbons, and he came forward to meet her
with a great white crowbar in his hand. He walked slowly, however, and
his eyes were downcast, with the air of a man who still treasures a
grievance.

"Good mornin', Miss Foster."

"Good morning, Mr. Wilson. Oh, if you are going to be cross with me, I'd
best go home again."

"I'm not cross, Miss Foster. I take it very kindly that you should come
out this way on such a day."

"I wanted to say to you--I wanted to say that I was sorry if I made you
angry yesterday. I didn't mean to make fun. I didn't, indeed. It is only
my way of talking. It was so good of you, so noble of you, to let it
make no difference."

"None at all, Dolly." He was quite radiant again. "If I didn't love you
so, I wouldn't mind what that other chap said or did. And if I could
only think that you cared more for me than for him--"

"I do, Adam."

"God bless you for saying so! You've lightened my heart, Dolly. I have
to go to Portsmouth for the firm today. To-morrow night I'll come and
see you."

"Very well, Adam, I--Oh, my God, what's that!"

A rending breaking noise in the distance, a dull rumble, and a burst of
shouts and cries.

"The rick's down! There's been an accident!" They both started running
down the hill.

"Father!" panted the girl, "father!"

"He's all right!" shouted her companion, "I can see him. But there's
some one down. They're lifting him now. And here's one running like mad
for the doctor."

A farm-labourer came rushing wildly up the lane. "Don't you go, Missey,"
he cried. "A man's hurt."

"Who?"

"It's Bill. The rick came down and the ridge-pole caught him across the
back. He's dead, I think. Leastwise, there's not much life in him. I'm
off for Doctor Strong!" He bent his shoulder to the wind, and lumbered
off down the road.

"Poor Bill! Thank God it wasn't father!" They were at the edge of
the field now in which the acc