Evidently he had pleased the multitude, for there was now a thick crowd in the central space, and already dancing had begun. Farm-hands in clean smocks, with bright-coloured handkerchiefs round their necks, gambolled uncouthly with farm-girls in spotted and striped muslins. Young farmers' wives, stiff with the sedateness of their bridehead, were drawn into reluctant capers. Despairing virgins renewed their hope, and tried wives their liveliness in unaccustomed arms. Even the elders danced, stumping together on the outskirts of the whirl as long as their breath allowed them. Harry played "The Song of Seth's House," which in spite of--or because of--its sadness was a good dancing tune. There was no definite step, just anything the dancers fancied. Some kicked up their heels vigorously, others slid them sedately, some held their partners by the hand, others with both arms round their waist. Then suddenly Naomi found herself in the thick of the crowd, at once crushed and protected by Reuben's six foot three of strength. At first she was shocked, chilled--she had never danced at a fair before, and it seemed dreadful to be dancing here with Reuben while Harry fiddled. But gradually the jovial movement, the vigour and gay spirits of her partner, wore down her reluctance. Once more she was impressed by that entire absence of self-consciousness and false pride which characterised him. After all, why should they not dance here together? Why should they stand glum while everyone else was merrymaking? Harry did not notice them, and if he did he would not care. "The blackbird flew out from the eaves of the Manor, The Manor of Seth in the Sussex countrie, And he carried a prayer from the lad of the Manor, A prayer and a tear to his faithless ladie." She found herself bending to the rhythm of the music, swaying in Reuben's arms. He held her lightly, and it was wonderful how clever he was in avoiding concussion with the other dancers, most of whom bumped about regardless of anybody else. "To the lady who lives in the Grange by the water, The water of Iron in the Sussex countrie, The lad of Seth's House prays for comfort and pity-- Have pity, my true love, have pity on me!" A sudden weariness passed over Naomi, and Reuben led her out of the dance and brought her a drink of mild icy ale. He did not offer to take her home, and she did not ask to go. If he had offered she would have gone, but she had no will of her own--all desire, all initiative was drowned in the rhythm of the dance and the sadness of the old tune. "O why when we loved like the swallows in April, Should beauty forget now their nests have grown cold? O why when we kissed 'mid the ewes on the hanger, Should you turn from me now that they winter in fold?"