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 mean you by this, sir?”

“Latt me dowun, or I can’t tell ’e,” John answered with some difficulty.  So I let him come down, and I must confess that he had reason on his side.  “Plaise your worship”—­John called me so, ever since I returned from London, firmly believing that the King had made me a magistrate at least; though I was to keep it secret—­“us zeed as how your worship were took with thinkin’ of King’s business, in the middle of the whate-rigg:  and so uz zed, ’Latt un coom to his zell, us had better zave taime, by takking our dinner’; and here us be, praise your worship, and hopps no offence with thick iron spoon full of vried taties.”

I was glad enough to accept the ladle full of fried batatas, and to make the best of things, which is generally done by letting men have their own way.  Therefore I managed to dine with them, although it was so early.