They sat and talked of the work before them. "You've come in good time, Bess. 'Twill be a storm before the week ends, and we must get the ten acre carried." She sat calmly munching bread and cheese, waiting to catch Peter in one of his stealthy glances. "Yes, grandpa, I've come in good time. Perhaps I knew you had a handsome young labourer." How could she play among the messages that quickened in their eyes? Peter angrily flushed, and she laughed. The old man chuckled, seeing nothing at all. He was not a part of their quick life. The old man scythed steadily through the afternoon. Peter and the girl tossed the long ranks of hay, working alternate rows. He was never for a moment unaware of her presence. Starting from the extreme ends of the field, they regularly met in the centre. As the distance between them vanished, Peter became painfully excited, almost terrified. Though he seldom looked towards the girl, he somehow followed every swing of her brown arms. She invariably stopped her work as he approached, and Peter felt like a young animal whose points are numbered in the ring. He passed her three times, doggedly refusing to notice her. At the fourth encounter he shot at her a shyly resentful--almost sullen--protest. But the eyes he encountered were fixed on the strong muscles of his neck with a look--almost of greed--which staggered him. She knew he had read her, and she laughed as, in a tumult of pleasure, stung with shame, he turned swiftly away. "Good boy," she murmured under her breath. Peter angrily turned towards her, and found her eyes, lit with mockery, openly seducing him. "What do you mean?" said Peter foolishly. "You're working fine, but you're not used to it." "I'm all right." "You're dripping with heat." She dropped her fork, and caught at her apron. It was a pretty apron, decorated with cherry-coloured ribbons. "Come here," she said. Peter stared at her like a fascinated rabbit. She stepped towards him, and wiped the running sweat from his face and neck. He pettishly shook himself free. Laughing, she stood back and admired him. Then, with a little shrug, she turned away and went slowly down the field. Peter watched her for a moment, troubled but hopelessly caught in the ease and grace of her swinging arms. Her face, as she came to him, had seemed as delicately cool as when first she appeared from the house, though a fine dew had glistened in the curves of her throat. She was lovely and strong; yet Peter had for her a faint, persistent horror.