“Good luck to you!” she responded—­then suddenly bending a little 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 who seemed to be a leader among the others, holding out a pewter tankard full and frothing over.

Robin Clifford smiled and put his lips to it.

“Just to your health, Landon!” he said—­“I’m not a drinking man.”

“Haymaking’s thirsty work,” commented the other.  “Will Miss Jocelyn do us the honour?”

The girl made a wry little face.

“I don’t like beer, Mr. Landon,” she said—­“It’s horrid stuff, even when it’s home-brewed!  I help to make it, you see!”

She laughed gaily—­they all laughed with her, and then there was a little altercation which ended in her putting her lips to the tankard just offered to Robin and sipping the merest fleck of its foam.  Landon watched her,—­and as she returned the cup, put his own mouth to the place hers had touched and drank the whole draught off greedily.  Robin did not see his action, but the girl did, and a deep blush of offence suffused her cheeks.  She rose, a little nervously.

“I’ll go in now,” she said—­“Dad must be alone by this time.”

“All right!” And Robin jumped lightly from the top of the load to the ground and put the ladder up for her to descend.  She came down daintily, turning her back to him so that the hem of her neat white skirt fell like a little snowflake over each rung of the ladder, veiling not only her slim ankles but the very heels of her shoes.  When she was nearly at the bottom, he caught her up and set her lightly on the ground.