Left alone, Kenelm undressed, and before he got into
bed, bared his right arm, and doubling it, gravely
contemplated its muscular development, passing his
left hand over that prominence in the upper part which
is vulgarly called the ball. Satisfied apparently
with the size and the firmness of that pugilistic
protuberance, he gently sighed forth, “I fear
I shall have to lick Thomas Bowles.” In
five minutes more he was asleep.
THE next day the hay-mowing was completed, and a large
portion of the hay already made carted away to be
stacked. Kenelm acquitted himself with a credit
not less praiseworthy than had previously won Mr.
Saunderson’s approbation. But instead of
rejecting as before the acquaintance of Miss Jessie
Wiles, he contrived towards noon to place himself
near to that dangerous beauty, and commenced conversation.
“I am afraid I was rather rude to you yesterday,
and I want to beg pardon.”
“Oh,” answered the girl, in that simple
intelligible English which is more frequent among
our village folks nowadays than many popular novelists
would lead us into supposing, “oh, I ought to
ask pardon for taking a liberty in speaking to you.
But I thought you’d feel strange, and I intended
it kindly.”
“I’m sure you did,” returned Kenelm,
chivalrously raking her portion of hay as well as
his own, while he spoke. “And I want to
be good friends with you. It is very near the
time when we shall leave off for dinner, and Mrs.
Saunderson has filled my pockets with some excellent
beef-sandwiches, which I shall be happy to share with
you, if you do not object to dine with me here, instead
of going home for your dinner.”
The girl hesitated, and then shook her head in dissent
from the proposition.
“Are you afraid that your neighbours will think
it wrong?”
Jessie curled up her lips with a pretty scorn, and
said, “I don’t much care what other folks
say, but is n’t it wrong?”
“Not in the least. Let me make your mind
easy. I am here but for a day or two: we
are not likely ever to meet again; but, before I go,
I should be glad if I could do you some little service.”
As he spoke he had paused from his work, and, leaning
on his rake, fixed his eyes, for the first time attentively,
on the fair haymaker.
Yes, she was decidedly pretty,—pretty to
a rare degree: luxuriant brown hair neatly tied
up, under a straw hat doubtless of her own plaiting;
for, as a general rule, nothing more educates the village
maid for the destinies of flirt than the accomplishment
of straw-plaiting. She had large, soft blue eyes,
delicate small features, and a complexion more clear
in its healthful bloom than rural beauties generally
retain against the influences of wind and sun.
She smiled and slightly coloured as he gazed on her,
and, lifting her eyes, gave him one gentle, trustful
glance, which might have bewitched a philosopher and
