‘Nay, missus, that I haven’t. Lord, no. ’T was this day se’ennight as poor master was buried. Dear, yes, so ’t was.’ A lump rose in Rosalie’s throat, but she steadied her voice and said coldly: ‘I am not talking of that. It is churning morning, as you know very well. You should have been up and about an hour ago. Make as much haste as you can, now, and come down.’ She closed the door with just sufficient noise to indicate the condition of her feelings, and hastened across the room to the open window. Drawing the curtains apart, she looked out. A glorious summer’s day. Not a cloud upon the pearly-blue expanse of sky, the leaves stirring gently in a fresh breeze—a breeze laden with all the exquisite spicy scents of morning: the fragrance of dewy grasses, of sun-kissed trees, of newly-awakened flowers. The monthly rose-tree climbing round her mullioned window thrust its delicate clusters of bloom almost into Rosalie’s face, but she pushed it impatiently aside. Her eyes cast a keen glance on the homely scene beyond. Above the time-worn roofs of the farm-buildings, where the green of the moss and the mellow red and yellow of the tiles were alike transfigured by this mystic glow, she could see last year’s ricks shouldering each other, their regular outlines defined, as it were, with a pencil of fire; the great meadow beyond, which sloped downwards till it reached the church-yard wall a quarter of a mile away, broke into light ripples, tawny and russet, as the breeze swept over it. Surely these were sights to gladden a young heart—even a heart that had been sorrowing—yet the expression of Rosalie’s eyes grew more and more discontented and displeased, and a frown gathered on her brow. The fowl were flocking impatiently about the gate of the great barn-yard; yonder, on the further side, from beneath the tiled roof of the line of pigsties she could hear loud vociferations; turning her eyes towards the stable-buildings which ran at right angles to them, she could see that the doors were fast closed, and could hear the rattling of chains and stamping of heavy hoofs within. The Church Meadow ought to have been cut to-day—the grass was over-ripe as it was; men and horses should have been at work since three o’clock. No figures appeared even in the neighbourhood of the barn; and looking beyond to the barton proper, she could see that it was empty. No wonder that the lowing of the cows had sounded distant in her ears: they were still in their pasture by the river. Poor creatures! crowding round the gate, no doubt, as the fowl were doing close at hand, all clamouring alike for the attention which was evidently withheld from them. What was everyone about? Why had not the men come to their work as usual?