“I am glad to hear that,” said Mount Dunstan.  The good luck was plainly of a nature to have excited them greatly.  Chance good luck did not happen to people like themselves.  They were in the state of mind which in their class can only be relieved by talk.  The woman broke in, her weak mouth and chin quite unsteady.

“Seems like it can’t be true, sir,” she said.  “I’d only just come out of the Union—­after this one,” signifying the new baby at her breast.  “I wasn’t fit to drag along day after day.  We ’ad to stop ’ere ’cos I was near fainting away.”

“She looked fair white when she sat down,” put in the man.  “Like she was goin’ off.”

“And that very minute,” said the woman, “a young lady came by on ‘orseback, an’ the minute she sees me she stops her ‘orse an’ gets down.”

“I never seen nothing like the quick way she done it,” said the husband.  “Sharp, like she was a soldier under order.  Down an’ give the bridle to the groom an’ comes over.”

“And kneels down,” the woman took him up, “right by me an’ says, ’What’s the matter?  What can I do?’ an’ finds out in two minutes an’ sends to the farm for some brandy an’ all this basketful of stuff,” jerking her head towards the treasure at her side.  “An’ gives ’im,” with another jerk towards her mate, “money enough to ’elp us along till I’m fair on my feet.  That quick it was—­that quick,” passing her hand over her forehead, “as if it wasn’t for the basket,” with a nervous, half-hysteric giggle, “I wouldn’t believe but what it was a dream—­I wouldn’t.”

“She was a very kind young lady,” said Mount Dunstan, “and you were in luck.”

He gave a few coppers to the children and strode on his way.  The glow was hot in his heart, and he held his head high.

“She has gone by,” he said.  “She has gone by.”

He knew he should find her at West Ways Farm, and he did so.  Slim and straight as a young birch tree, and elate with her ride in the morning air, she stood silhouetted in her black habit against the ancient whitewashed brick porch as she talked to Bolter.

“I have been drinking a glass of milk and asking questions about hops,” she said, giving him her hand bare of glove.  “Until this year I have never seen a hop garden or a hop picker.”

After the exchange of a few words Bolter respectfully melted away and left them together.

“It was such a wonderful day that I wanted to be out under the sky for a long time—­to ride a long way,” she explained.  “I have been looking at hop gardens as I rode.  I have watched them all the summer—­from the time when there was only a little thing with two or three pale green leaves looking imploringly all the way up to the top of each immensely tall hop pole, from its place in the earth at the bottom of it—­as if it was saying over and over again, under its breath, ’Can I get up there?  Can I get up?  Can I do it in time?  Can I do it in time?’