Chapter 8 - Page 2

so near his heart, had gone to
Florence; and that he had moved heaven and earth to follow her there.
And when his own love-affairs were pressing and important, how was it
likely that he could care for those of Julius and Sophia?

So, at intervals, they wondered a little about Harry's peculiar
movement, and tried hard to find something definite below the surface
words of his short letters. Otherwise, a great peace had settled over
Seat-Sandal. Its hall-doors stood open all day long, and the August
sunshine and the garden scents drifted in with the lights and shadows.
Life had settled down into such simple ways, that it seemed to be always
at rest. The hours went and came, and brought with them their little
measure of duty and pleasure, both so usual and easy, that they took
nothing from the feelings or the strength, and gave an infinite sense of
peace and contentment.

One August evening they were in the garden; there had been several hot,
clear days, and the harvesters were making the most of every hour. The
squire had been in the field until near sunset, and now he was watching
anxiously for the last wain. "We have the earliest shearing in
Sandal-Side," he said. "The sickle has not been in the upper meadows
yet, and if they finish to-night it will be a good thing. It's a fine
moon for work. _A fine moon, God bless her!_ Hark! There is the song I
have been waiting for, and all's well, Charlotte." And they stood still
to listen to the rumble of the wagon, and the rude, hearty chant that at
intervals accompanied it:--

"Blest be the day that Christ was born!
The last sheaf of Sandal corn
Is well bound, and better shorn.
Hip, hip, hurrah!"

"Good-evening, squire." The speaker had come quickly around one of the
garden hedges, and his voice seemed to fall out of mid-air. Charlotte
turned, with eyes full of light, and a flush of color that made her
exceedingly handsome.

"Well-a-mercy! Good-evening, Stephen. When did you get home? Nobody had
heard tell. Eh? What?"

"I came this afternoon, squire; and as there is a favor you can do us, I
thought I would ask it at once."

"Surely, Stephen. What can I do? Eh? What?"

"I hear your harvest is home. Can you spare us a couple of men? The
wheat in Low Barra fields is ready for the sickle."

"Three men, four, if you want them. You cannot have too many sickles.
Cut wheat while the sun shines. Eh? What? How is the lady at Up-Hill?"

"Mother is middling well, I'm obliged to you. I think she has failed
though, since grandfather died."

"It is likely. She has been too much by herself. You should stay at
home,