and took out harness for the farm wagons; he went to ask if the horses
had been watered.

The cows were in pasture; in the wagon shed the two men, before a tin
basin, plunged their arms into water, flung it on their faces, and
puffed and sighed. The shed was cold, and redolent of earth. Outside,
the odor of coffee, drifting from the house, mingled in the early
morning air with clover and hay, cut in the fields, but not yet stored.

Anna Barly, from her room, heard her mother moving in the kitchen, and
sat up in bed. The patch-work quilt was fallen on the floor, where it
lay as sleepy as its mistress. She tossed her hair back from her face;
it spread broad and gold across her shoulders, and the wide sleeves of
her nightdress, falling down her arms, bared her round, brown elbows as
she caught it up again.

In the kitchen, the two hired men, their faces wet and clean, poured
sugar over their lettuce, and talked with their mouths full.

"I hear tell of a borer, like an ear-worm, spoiling the corn. . . .
But there's none in our corn, so far as I can see."

"Never been so much rain since I was born."

"A bad year."

"Well," said Mrs. Barly, "that's no wonder, either, with prices what
they are, and you two eating your heads off, for all the work you do."

"Now, then," said her husband hastily, "that's all right, too, mother."