forward she said almost breathlessly: "Please wish luck to Dad!
He's not well--and he isn't here! Oh, please don't forget him!"

They all stared at her for a moment, as if startled or surprised,
then they all joined in a stentorian shout.

"That's right, Miss! Good luck to the master! Many good years of
life to him, and better crops every year!"

She drew back, smiling her thanks, but there were tears in her
eyes. And then they all started in a pretty procession--the men
leading Roger, who paced along the meadow with equine dignity,
shaking his ribbons now and again as if he were fully conscious of
carrying something more valuable than mere hay,--and above them
all smiled the girl's young face, framed in its soft brown hair
and crowned with the wild roses, while at her side stood the very
type of a model Englishman, with all the promise of splendid life
and vigour in the build of his form, the set of his shoulders and
the poise of his handsome head. It was a picture of youth and
beauty and lovely nature set against the warm evening tint of the
sky,--one of those pictures which, though drawn for the moment
only on the minds of those who see it, is yet never forgotten.

Arriving presently at a vast enclosure, in which already two loads
of hay were being stacked, they were hailed with a cheery shout by
several other labourers at work, and very soon a strong smell of
beer began to mingle with the odour of the hay and the dewy scent
of the elder flowers and sweet briar in the hedges close by.

"Have a drop, Mr. Clifford!" said one tall, powerful-looking man