"Unless I may sit beside you with my arm round your waist, in the Pettigrew fashion, I'd rather stand!" he retorted. "You said Pettigrew's hands were always dirty--so are mine. I'd better keep my distance from you. One can't make hay and remain altogether as clean as a new pin!" She gave an impatient gesture. "You always take things up in the wrong way," she said--"I never thought you a bit like Pettigrew! Your hands are not really dirty!" "They are!" he answered, obstinately. "Besides, you don't want my arm round your waist, do you?" "Certainly not!" she replied, quickly. "Then I'll stand," he said;--"You shall be enthroned like a queen and I'll be your bodyguard. Here, wait a minute!" He piled up the hay in the middle of the load till it made a high cushion where, in obedience to his gesture, Innocent seated herself. The men leading the horse were now close about the waggon, and one of them, grinning sheepishly at the girl, offered her a daintily-made wreath of wild roses, from which all the thorns had been carefully removed. "Looks prutty, don't it?" he said. She accepted it with a smile. "Is it for me? Oh, Larry, how nice of you! Am I to wear it?" "If ye loike!" This with another grin. She set it on her uncovered head and became at once a model for a Romney; the wild roses with their delicate pink and white against her brown hair suited the hues of her complexion and the tender grey of her eyes;--and when, thus adorned, she looked up at her companion, he was fain to turn away quickly lest his admiration should be too plainly made manifest before profane witnesses. Roger, meanwhile, was being harnessed to the waggon. He was a handsome creature of his kind, and he knew it. As he turned his bright soft glance from side to side with a conscious pride in himself and his surroundings, he seemed to be perfectly aware that the knots of bright red ribbon tied in his long and heavy mane meant some sort of festival. When all was done the haymakers gathered round. "Good luck to the last load, Mr. Clifford!" they shouted. "Good luck to you all!" answered Robin, cheerily. "Good luck t'ye, Miss!" and they raised their sun-browned faces to the girl as she looked down upon them. "As fine a crop and as fair a load next year!" "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!"