'When were you coming?' 'Well, I got to see a man down your way, Cissy; a' owes me for a load a' straw.' 'Then why don't you come down and get the money?' 'I telled 'ee I was a-coming. He wants some of our sheep to feed off a meadow; s'pose I must see about it'--with a sigh, as if the idea of a decision was insupportable. 'Why didn't you come before?' 'Aw, I don't seem to have no time'--farmers having more time than anybody else. 'You could have come in June.' 'Bless 'ee, your feyther's got the hay about; a' don't want no strangers bothering.' 'As if you were a stranger! Well, why didn't you come in May?' 'Lor bless 'ee, my dear.' 'In April?' 'Us was main busy a-hoeing.' 'In March?' 'I had the rheumatism bad in March.' 'Well, then,' concluded Cicely, 'now just change your coat and come to-day. Jump up in the pony-trap--we will make room.' 'To-day!' in hopeless bewilderment, his breath quite taken away at the idea of such sudden action. 'Couldn't do't--couldn't do't. Got to go down to Thirty Acre Corner: got to get out the reaping machine--a' wants oiling, a' reckon; got some new hurdles coming; 'spects a chap to call about them lambs;' a farmer can always find a score of reasons for doing nothing. 'All rubbish!' cried Cicely, smiling. 'Nieces be main peart now-a-days,' said he, shutting one eye and keeping it closed, as much as to say--I won't be driven. Then to me, 'There won't be many at market to-day.' 'I am hungry,' said Cicely softly; 'I should like some bread and honey.' 'Aw; should 'ee?' in gentler tones; 'I'll get 'ee some: will'ee have it in th' comb? I got a bit left.' She knew his pride in his bees and his honey; hill farmers still keep large stocks. He brought her a slice of home-baked bread and a piece of comb. She took the comb in her white fingers, and pressed the liquid gold from the cells; the luscious sweetness gathered from a thousand flowers making her lips still sweeter. Uncle Bennet offered me a jar full to the brim: 'Dip your vinger in,' said he. 'Why is the honey of the hills so much nicer?' asked Cicely, well knowing, but drawing him on. 'It be th' clover and th' thyme, and summat in the air. There bean't no hedges for um to fly up against, and so um carries home a bigger load.' 'How many hives have you?' I inquired. 'Let's see'--he counted them up, touching a finger for each twenty--'There be three score and sixteen; I have a' had six score years ago, but folk don't care for honey now sugar be so cheap.'