But Mrs Crumpler clutched it fast. “Please ye, sir,” she said firmly, “there’s no occasion for ye to be at the loss of a day’s work along o’ Crumpler bein’ laid-up—I be come to take his place.” “What,” cried Ellery, “you!” “E-es, sir,” rejoined Mrs Crumpler with a kind of modest assurance. “I can work just so well as he. There’s nothin’ what he do do as I can’t do if ye’ll let me try.” “Can ye drive a hayrake, then?” cried the farmer, with a laugh that was half-fierce and half-amused. “Not a hayrake, no, sir,” rejoined the little woman after a moment’s reflection; “I shouldn’t like for to undertake a hayrake—but a cart or a waggon—I d’ ’low I could drive either o’ them just so well as anybody. And I could use a hand-rake, or I could toss up hay wi’ a pitchfork.” “Yes, you’ve got such fine long arms, haven’t you?” rejoined Ellery, eyeing her diminutive proportions. But Mrs Crumpler was not discouraged: “They mid be shart, sir, but they be terr’ble strong,” she returned; “feel o’ them.” The farmer laughed again, but this time more good-naturedly. “If you was to give me a trial, sir, I think you’d be satisfied,” pleaded Mrs Crumpler. “Oh, you can try as much as you like,” returned the master, twitching the rein from her hand, and eyeing her with a smile that was not unkindly. “I don’t suppose you’ll make much hand of it, but you’re welcome to try.” “Thank ’ee, sir,” she responded, fervently. “What be I to do then, please, sir?” “Why, we’ll try what your arms are made of, since you’re so proud of ’em. You’ll find a pitchfork in that shed yonder. Be sprack and get it, and follow the rest o’ the folks up along.” He chuckled as he watched her cross the yard and dive into the shed, reappearing in a twinkling with a pitchfork as tall as herself. Having seen her shoulder this and hasten away with it, he put his horse to a trot, and presently forgot all about Mrs Crumpler in attending to more weighty matters. The little woman’s appearance in the field was greeted with a shout of laughter; but, nothing daunted, she made her way to the nearest waggon. “I be come to lend a hand,” she declared; “I be come to take Jarge’s place.” The announcement was treated as a good joke; old Joe Weatherby grinned down at her from the waggon, while Bill Frost paused with an immense bundle of hay poised on his fork. “It bain’t much of a hand what you’ll be lendin’, Sally; I d’ ’low your arms won’t reach much further nor a child’s.” “You’ll soon see that,” returned Sally valiantly; then, smiling up at Joe, she continued, “I d’ ’low a woman bain’t fit for much if she can’t take her husband’s place now an’ again when he be laid by the heels. How’s that to start wi’?” She drove the prongs of her fork into the nearest haycock, and adroitly tossed a goodly truss to Joe, who proceeded to spread and trample it after the recognised fashion. “Now then, here’s another.”