“Sich a man as that didn’t ought to look honest folk i’ th’ face,” remarked Mrs Frost witheringly. But Jarge laughed on, eyeing the three the while with so quizzical an air that they were positively discomfited. Finally he rose and made his way to the door—walking quite straight by the way—and politely requested the ladies to step out. This they did, overturning a chair or two in their hasty passage. Jarge closed the door, but, apparently struck by a sudden thought, opened it again and thrust his head through the aperture. “I b’ain’t ashamed o’ myself, good souls,” shouted Mr Crumpler after the retreating figures, “but I tell ye what—I be jist about proud o’ my little ’ooman.” Mrs Crumpler remained, however, somewhat discomposed by the recent event, and when she took her way fieldwards again, it was with a downcast countenance. Jarge would have accompanied her, but for the fact that, though he had regained control of his legs and could speak with comparative clearness, he continued to see double. “An’ that mid be a bit awk’ard wi’ so many harses about,” he confided to Sally. Moreover the wound in his head was sufficiently painful to make a further rest advisable. Sally set forth therefore alone, feeling tired and miserable enough. She was the most modest little creature in the world, and was filled with dismay at the notoriety she had so suddenly acquired. As the afternoon advanced she shrank more and more into her shell, for if the ill-will of the women had vexed and perturbed her, the boisterous admiration of the men annoyed her almost beyond endurance. The rough jests, the officious offers of aid, the loudly expressed praise were equally obnoxious to her. It was with unbounded relief that she saw the last waggon loaded, and prepared to depart from the field. She had shaken out her skirts, and was in the act of straightening her sunbonnet when she found herself suddenly seized from behind, and almost before she realised what was happening, was hauled by a dozen strong grimy hands on to the apex of the piled-up hay and there enthroned. “Three cheers for the Queen o’ the Day!” shouted someone, and the cry was taken up by a score of lusty voices. “Three cheers for the best wife in Riverton!” “Let me down,” gasped Mrs Crumpler faintly; but an extra pair of horses had been harnessed to the waggon, and it was now rumbling forward at what seemed to her a dangerously rapid rate. There sat the poor little woman on her sweet-smelling throne, the reluctant centre of all eyes, while the waggon went out of the field and down the village street surrounded by a shouting band of haymakers. Outraged matrons stood in the doorways raising indignant eyes to Heaven, delighted children ran after the convoy, adding their shrill voices to the chorus; last of all Jarge Crumpler himself, startled by the outcry, made his way to his own gate just as the triumphal procession drew up before it.