The foreboding which lurked in these words was plainly the reflection of his own morbid broodings, but like all strong emotion, it was infectious, and, reason as she would, she could not shake off its influence entirely. At every unoccupied moment an indefinable shadow seemed to cross the period between Philip’s going and return. There was only one way of getting rid of this impression—to be always busy. Fortunately that was the remedy nearest at hand; for with household duties, her uncle’s accounts and correspondence—considerably multiplied during harvest—and the preparation with her own hands of sundry useful articles for Philip to take with him on his travels, she had plenty to do, without reckoning the hours her lover himself occupied. It was during one of those happy hours that Philip referred to the proposal made by his father, and laughingly asked if she would agree to it. This was a trial which Madge had anticipated, and was yet unprepared to meet. She could not make up her mind whether or not to tell Philip about Mr Hadleigh’s letters. So, again she followed her maxim, and did what was most disagreeable to herself—kept the secret. ‘You know what I think about it, Philip,’ she answered; ‘and I know the answer you gave him.’ ‘You are sure?’ ‘Quite sure—you refused.’ ‘And you are not sorry? Cruel Madge—you do not wish me to stay.’ ‘What we wish is not always best, Philip.’ She looked at him with those quiet longing eyes; and he wished they had not been at that moment walking in the harvest-field, with the reaping-machine coming at full swing towards them, followed by its troop of men and women gathering up the shorn grain, binding it into sheaves and piling them into shocks for the drying wind to do its part of the work. Had they only been in the orchard, he would have given her a lover’s token that he understood and appreciated her sacrifice. ‘I am not prepared to give unqualified assent to that doctrine,’ he said, thinking of the inconvenient neighbourhood of the harvesters. ‘However, in this instance I did not do what I wished.’ ‘And what did he say?’ ‘Oh, he gave me a lot of good advice.’ ‘Did you take it?’ she demanded, smiling. ‘Well, you see if we were to take all the good advice that is offered us, there would be no enterprise in the world.’ ‘I am going to show you one man who will take good advice.’ ‘Who is that?’ ‘There he is speaking to uncle.’ ‘Why, that is Caleb Kersey. I never heard of him taking advice, as he is too much occupied in giving it; and a nice mess he is making of the harvest at our place.’ ‘That is what I am going to see him about. I promised your father to make some arrangement with him; but he has been away in Norfolk, and I have had no opportunity of speaking to him until now.’