He got into the cart too, and they drove together to Lizzie’s cottage. The door stood open as before, and the room was very still. Lizzie was crouching in a corner of the settle, with her hands outstretched, and a smile upon her face. In the green wood without the boughs were waving, and the birds were singing. “Lwonesome Lizzie” was lonesome no more: she had found Friend Death waiting for her in the deserted house, in the guise of the husband of her youth. JESS DOMENY ON STRIKE THE hay in Farmer Old’s biggest field had been duly mown and tossed, and his whole staff were now employed in carrying it. But the day was intensely hot, with a brooding sultriness which seemed to betoken a coming storm. Dust lay thick upon the hedges, and the ground was iron hard; rain was badly needed, no doubt, but Farmer Old devoutly hoped it would hold off just a little longer until the crop was saved. He was a wonderfully energetic man, was Farmer Old, and spared himself as little as those who worked under him. All the long, glowing hours of that languorous day he had toiled as manfully as any of his labourers; but now, at length, he had left them to their own devices for a short time, and the men breathed more freely in consequence. The rattle of the hay-rake ceased as the driver, having reached the corner of the field, paused to wipe his brow before turning the horses. A little knot of men, deputed by the farmer to ensure against any possible waste by following in its wake with the humble wooden implements in vogue before its invention, insensibly drew nearer together. One of their number expressed the natural longing for a drop of beer, and another incautiously provoked envious feelings by announcing that at Farmer Inkpen’s the men had as much beer allowed them as they could drink at busy times. “He do send it out to ’em reg’lar,” said Martin Fry. “Ees, my brother James, what works for Farmer Inkpen, do say that they do be carr’in’ the jugs back’ards and forrards fro’ the house to the field so reg’lar as if ’twas but the family theirselves what was working. There, it do make I dry wi’ naught but thinkin’ on it.” Jess Domeny looked up from the long roller of hay which he had just raked together, and surveyed his comrade vengefully. “An’ it mid well make ye feel dry, Martin!” he cried emphatically. “It mid well make ye feel dry. Sich a day as this be, an’ us a-workin’ so many hours at a stretch.” Jim Stuckey, perched aloft on the seat of the hay-rake, drew the back of his hand across his lips, and remarked that it was the drouthiest weather he’d a-knowed since he was a lad, an’ he’d see’d a good few hot summers too. “I wish,” resumed Martin, voicing the sentiments of the party, “our measter was so thoughtful for his fellow-creeturs as Farmer Inkpen do be, accordin’ to my brother James, but I truly believe a man’s tongue mid drop out of’s head wi’ drith afore he’d take a bit o’ notice.”