“Why, not so much lately, sir.  Last time were yesterday, jest afore Master Georgy come ‘ome.  I were at work here in the yard, an’ Squire comes riding up to me, smiling quite friendly like,—­which were pretty good of him, considering as Job Jagway ain’t back to work yet.  ’Oh Adam!’ sez he, ’so you’re ‘aving a sale here at Dapplemere, are you?’ Meaning sir, a sale of some bits, an’ sticks o’ furnitur’ as Miss Anthea’s forced to part wi’ to meet some bill or other.  ‘Summat o’ that sir,’ says I, making as light of it as I could.  ‘Why then, Adam,’ sez he, ’if Job Jagway should ‘appen to come over to buy a few o’ the things,—­no more fighting!’ sez he.  An’ so he nods, an’ smiles, an’ off he rides.  An’ sir, as I watched him go, the ‘Old Adam’ riz up in me to that extent as it’s a mercy I didn’t have no pitchfork ’andy.”

Bellew, sitting on the shaft of a cart with his back against a rick, listened to this narration with an air of dreamy abstraction, but Adam’s quick eyes noticed that despite the unruffled serenity of his brow, his chin seemed rather more prominent than usual.

“So that was why you were feeling gloomy, was it, Adam?”

“Ah! an’ enough to make any man feel gloomy, I should think.  Miss Anthea’s brave enough, but I reckon ‘twill come nigh breakin’ ’er ’eart to see the old stuff sold, the furnitur’ an’ that,—­so she’s goin’ to drive over to Cranbrook to be out o’ the way while it’s a-doin’.”

“And when does the sale take place?”

“The Saturday arter next, sir, as ever was,” Adam answered.  “But—­hush,—­mum’s the word, sir!” he broke off, and winking violently with a side-ways motion of the head, he took up his pitch-fork.  Wherefore, glancing round, Bellew saw Anthea coming towards them, fresh and sweet as the morning.  Her hands were full of flowers, and she carried her sun-bonnet upon her arm.  Here and there a rebellious curl had escaped from its fastenings as though desirous (and very naturally) of kissing the soft oval of her cheek, or the white curve of her neck.  And among them Bellew noticed one in particular,—­a roguish curl that glowed in the sun with a coppery light, and peeped at him wantonly above her ear.

“Good morning!” said he, rising and, to all appearance, addressing the curl in question, “you are early abroad this morning!”

“Early, Mr. Bellew!—­why I’ve been up hours.  I’m generally out at four o’clock on market days; we work hard, and long, at Dapplemere,” she answered, giving him her hand with her grave, sweet smile.

“Aye, for sure!” nodded Adam, “but farmin’ ain’t what it was in my young days!”

“But I think we shall do well with the hops, Adam.”

“’Ops, Miss Anthea,—­lord love you!—­there ain’t no ’ops nowhere so good as ourn be!”

“They ought to be ready for picking, soon,—­do you think sixty people will be enough?”

“Ah!—­they’ll be more’n enough, Miss Anthea.”

“And, Adam—­the five-acre field should be mowed today.”