“Coming to ride home on last load?”

She hesitated.

“I don’t know.  I’m not sure,” she answered.

“It’ll please Robin if you do,” he said.

A little smile trembled on her lips.  She bent her head over the dove she held against her bosom.

“Why should I please Robin?” she asked.

His dull eyes sparkled with a gleam of anger.

“Please Robin, please me,” he said, sharply—­“Please yourself, please nobody.”

“I do my best to please you, Dad!” she said, gently, yet with emphasis.

He was silent, sucking at his pipe-stem.  Just then a whistle struck the air like the near note of a thrush.  It came from the man on top of the haywaggon.  He had paused in his labour, and his face was turned towards the old man and the girl.  It was a handsome face, lighted by a smile which seemed to have caught a reflex of the sun.

“All ready, Uncle!” he shouted—­“Ready and waiting!”

The old man drew his pipe from his mouth.

“There you are!” he said, addressing the girl in a softer tone,—­ “He’s wanting you.”

She moved away at once.  As she went, the men who were raking in the last sweepings of the hay stood aside for her to pass.  One of them put a ladder against the wheel of the waggon.

“Going up, miss?” he asked, with a cheerful grin.

She smiled a response, but said nothing.

The young fellow on top of the load looked down.  His blue eyes sparkled merrily as he saw her.

“Are you coming?” he called.

She glanced up.

“If you like,” she answered.

“If I like!” he echoed, half-mockingly, half-tenderly; “You know I like!  Why, you’ve got that wretched bird with you!”

“He’s not a wretched bird,” she said,—­“He’s a darling!”

“Well, you can’t climb up here hugging him like that!  Let him go, —­and then I’ll help you.”

For all answer she ascended the ladder lightly without assistance, still holding the dove, and in another minute was seated beside him.

“There!” she said, as she settled herself comfortably down in the soft, sweet-smelling hay.  “Now you’ve got your wish, and I hope Dad is happy.”

“Did he tell you to come, or did you come of your own accord?” asked the young man, with a touch of curiosity.

“He told me, of course,” she answered; “I should never have come of my own accord.”

He bit his lip vexedly.  Turning away from her he called to the haymakers: 

“That’ll do, boys!  Fetch Roger, and haul in!”

The sun was nearing the western horizon and a deep apricot glow warmed the mown field and the undulating foliage in the far distance.  The men began to scatter here and there, putting aside their long wooden rakes, and two of them went off to bring Roger, the cart-horse, from his shed.

“Uncle Hugo!”

The old man, who still sat impassively on the beer-barrel, looked up.