"But there y'are, sir. I didn't want none o' 'er forty pounds, sir, an'

you bees got to stick to 'em wen you marries 'em, ben't 'ee, sir?"

The shepherd shook his head.

"No, sir, I don't believe in marryin' no one as you doesn't kind o'

like, do 'ee see, sir."

The poet nodded.

"An excellent sentiment," he said.

"Money ben't everything sir, bee 't, as I told 'em, sir, all on 'em.

Money ben't everythin'."

"But isn't it--isn't it a little embarra.s.sing to be sought in matrimony by four or five ladies?"

The shepherd paused, between two bites, and looked at the poet, in some bewilderment.

"If 'ee means worrittin', sir--it bees a deal more worrittin' to ask 'em, yourself, sir--fower or five on 'em."

He rose and lurched off to join his comrades, and the poet looked after him, with something of envy in his eyes.

"O you fortunate man," he murmured, as he lay back, watching the busy scene, with half-closed eyes.

Presently he half started to his feet, for at the far end of the field he could see Tommy talking to two newcomers, a tall, slender figure, with a carriage and poise possessed by one alone, and a little girl in a smock frock.

He rose and wandered slowly down the field.

"Four or five," he murmured, "and they asked him--O the lucky, lucky man--they asked him. Dear me, dear me."

"A lovely evening, Miss Gerald."

Mollie looked up, with a smile, from the sheaf she was binding.

"Isn't it jolly--it must be a glad life these open-air folk lead, don't you think?"

"The best of lives--but they don't know it."

Mollie rose, and tossed back a wisp or two of hair from her forehead.

"I am sure I should love it, if it were my lot--the white stems on my arms and the warm sun on my face, and the songs in the wagon, at dusk.

Listen to that man singing there--I'm sure he is just glad of life."

"A strange man," said the poet, following her gaze. "A most curious, fortunate person."

"You know him?"

"A little--he is quite a Napoleon of hearts."

Mollie laughed.

"He doesn't look even a little bit romantic."

"Oh, he isn't. I fancy the romance, if there is any, must be usually on the other side. He has had four or five offers of marriage."

"What a perfectly horrid idea."

The poet stroked his chin.

"Yet think of the confusion and questioning of heart, and of the hours of agony that it would save a diffident man."

"He doesn't look diffident."

"He may not be. I merely make a supposition."

"I think it's an appalling idea."

"Oh, I know, I know, and yet I can imagine it a bridge to paradise."

"I don't understand."

"Then, suppose a man so stormed by love that by it all life has been renewed and made beautiful for him; and suppose this man so utterly and in every way unsuited to its realisation, that though all there is in him urges him to speak of it, yet he dare not lest he should lose even the cold solace of friendship. Do you not see how it might----?"

Mollie's grey eyes looked him straight in the face.

"No," she said. "It would be better for him never to speak, than to lose his ideal, as he a.s.suredly would."

"You--you would bid him never speak?"

Mollie laughed.

"It depends on so many things--on how and why he was unsuitable, and by whose standard he gauged his shortcoming."

"His own."

"He might be wrong."

"Who could know better?"

"The girl he asked."

"You would bid him ask?"

She was silent; then,

"If--if he were quite sure the girl were worthy," she said, in a low voice.

The poet held out his hands.