“Three cheers for the best wife in Riverton!” shouted Bill Frost; and “Hooray, hooray!” cried the bystanders. Jarge himself, infected by the enthusiasm, shouted “Hooray” too, just as little Sally, very red in the face, came sliding down from the waggon. As she heard him she stopped for a second, threw a reproachful glance at him, and then, bursting into smothered sobs, hurried into the house. After a pause of bewilderment he hastened after her, while the haymakers, with a farewell cheer, continued their progress at a more leisurely pace, with a dozen children clinging to the tail-board of the waggon, and one or two of the more adventurous perched on the load itself. Sally was crouching behind the door with her apron over her head, sobbing as if her heart would break. “Missus!” said Jarge, becoming quite sober all at once, and seeing only the very distinct outline of one little sorrowful figure. “Missus!—little ’ooman!” Sally jerked down her apron and gazed at him with eyes that were fierce through their tears. “You did ought to be ashamed o’ yourself,” she cried brokenly. Jarge looked down at her ruefully and drew a long breath. “Well,” he said, “I d’ ’low I be!” * * * He repeated this statement on the following morning when he presented himself to Farmer Ellery, humbly petitioning that his fault might be overlooked, and promising to work an hour or two “extry” every day to make up for the time which had been lost. “For I shouldn’t like my missus to come out a-workin’ any more,” he explained. The farmer looked at him sharply, grunted, and finally agreed. “I’ll give you another chance,” he said, “but I don’t know how long you’ll keep straight.” “I be a-goin’ for to turn over a new leaf,” said Jarge firmly, and to everyone’s surprise he actually did. ANN-CAR’LINE LAMBING time is a very important epoch to farming folk, and particularly to farming folk in Dorset. The popular idea which associates the advent of these innocents with primroses and daffodils, budding hedges, and all the other adjuncts of spring does not obtain in this pre-eminently sheep-rearing county. It is in November when days are at their shortest, when the earth is at its barest, when cold rain falls, and not infrequently sleet or “snow-stuff,” as it is locally called, that the misguided younglings of the flock look their first upon a sodden and gloomy world. Midway in October their quarters are got in readiness, preferably in a corner of some upland field; the shepherd’s wheeled hut takes up its position in the midst of a sheltered space in the lewth of the hedge, straw-padded hurdles mark the enclosure, and sundry pens are made ready for the new arrivals and their dams. By day the shepherd himself may be seen, crook in hand and dog at heel, taking stock of his premises; and often at dusk the uncertain light of his lantern may be noted from afar.