Sally’s fork went backwards and forwards with so much speed and energy that Joe presently pleaded for mercy, announcing that she was ready for him before he could get ready for she. But Bill laughed sardonically. “It be all very well now the wain be near empty. Bide a bit till the load do begin to grow.” As the hay mounted higher and higher, indeed, in response to the combined efforts of himself and Mrs Crumpler, the poor little creature found the work more difficult to accomplish. She made strenuous efforts, holding her pitchfork at its extreme end, tossing the hay with all her strength, even jumping occasionally; but over and over again the truss tumbled down from her fork before she could cast it into its allotted place. “I d’ ’low ye’ll have to give in,” said Joe, gazing down at her from his eminence. “I ’on’t then!” said Sally; and then she burst into tears. “I can’t!” she explained between her sobs. “If I can’t do Jarge’s work the maister ’ull turn en off. He said so. Here, I’ll try again.” “Nay now, nay now,” said Joe, “ye mid have the best ’eart in the world yet yer arms midden’t be no longer. Tell ’ee what—ye can be rakin’ the stuff together, while me and Bill do finish this lot, an’ when we do bring the waggon back ye can take my place on it.” Sally dropped the apron with which she had been wiping her eyes, and thanked him gratefully; then, exchanging her fork for a wooden rake, she turned energetically to her new task. By-and-by the waggon went creaking out of the field, and presently returned empty, whereupon Mrs Crumpler proudly clambered up on it. Her goodwill and energy were certainly unfailing; nevertheless, she presently discovered that something more was required for the successful loading of a waggon. It was very difficult to spread the hay evenly, and, trample as she might, she could not get it to lie as firmly as when Joe was in possession. When Farmer Ellery rode round, he paused for quite a long while watching her operations, and though Sally worked feverishly hard, and feigned to take no notice of him, her heart beat so fast that she could scarcely breathe, and when he presently called her by name, she gave such a start that she dropped her pitchfork. “I don’t think this job is altogether in your line, Mrs Crumpler,” said the farmer. Sally timidly raised her eyes to his face, but could make nothing of it, half-hidden as it was by his great brown beard. “I bain’t gettin’ on so very bad, thank ’ee, sir,” she answered, curtseying as well as she could on top of her load. “I’ll—I’ll be able to manage better with a little more practice.” “Yes, and while you’re practising my hay will be sliding about all over the field,” he rejoined gruffly. “You’d best get down again and give up your place to Joe.” Mrs Crumpler meekly slid to the ground, and came up to the farmer, remarking with an ingratiating smile which belied her anxious eyes, “I d’ ’low I’m best at rakin’.”