myself come the cool of the evenin'. An' you can
send Ted with the cart to gather 'em up."

"No, no, mother. I'll make time to-morrow."

"'Twill be gude to me, an' like auld days, when I was a li'l maid. You
sharp the sickle an' fetch the skeiner out, tu, for I was a quick hand
at bindin' ropes o' rushes, an' have made many a yard of 'em in my
time."

Then she withdrew from the tremendous sunshine, and Will, now handling a
rake, proceeded with his task.

Two days later a rick began to rise majestically at the corner of
Blanchard's largest field, while round about it was gathered the human
life of the farm. Phoebe, with her baby, sat on an old sheepskin rug in
the shadow of the growing pile; little Tim rollicked unheeded with Ship
in the sweet grass, and clamoured from time to time for milk from a
glass bottle; Will stood up aloft and received the hay from Chown's
fork, while Mrs. Blanchard, busy with the "skeiner" stuck into the side
of the rick, wound stout ropes of rushes for the thatching.

Then it was that Will, glancing out upon the Moor, observed a string of
gypsy folk making slow progress towards Chagford. Among the various
Romany cavalcades which thus passed Newtake in summer time this appeared
not the least strange. Two ordinary caravans headed the procession. A
man conducted each, a naked-footed child or two trotted beside them, and
an elder boy led along three goats. The travelling homes were encumbered
with osier-and cane-work, and following them came a little broken-down,
open vehicle. This was drawn by two donkeys, harnessed tandem-fashion,
and the chariot had been painted bright blue. A woman drove the concern,
and in it appeared a knife-grinding machine and a basket of cackling
poultry, while some tent-poles stuck out behind. Will laughed at this
spectacle, and called his wife's attention to it, whereon Phoebe and
Damaris went as far as the gate of the hayfield to win a nearer view.
The gypsies, however, had already passed, but Mrs. Blanchard found time
to observe the sky-blue carriage and shake her head at it.

"What gwaines-on! Theer's no master minds 'mongst them people nowadays,"
she said. "Your faither wouldn't have let his folk make a show of
themselves like that."

"They 'm mostly chicken stealers nowadays," declared Will; "an' so surly
as dogs if you tell 'em to go 'bout theer business."

"Not to none o' your name--never," declared his mother. "No gypsy's
gwaine to forget my husband in h