"What is your life?" asks Eleanor curiously, drawing the long ends of hay through her teeth with a meditative smile. "Scarcely less monotonous than yours, Miss Grebby"--an amused look in his eyes. "Instead of feeding chickens I feed my friends--lunches, dinners, midnight suppers--all of which pall terribly after a time. Instead of dusting my house I leave it to accumulate dust, while I wander abroad. A home is a dull place for one man." "You have no wife or mother?" "No." "But you must have lots of money. Why, only think of all the silver you threw to the children this afternoon! I do not believe they had ever seen so many shillings and sixpences before." "Money will not buy a mother or----" He was going to say "a wife," but checked himself. Philip Roche was an accurate man. "Poor Mr. Roche, it must be very lonely," says Eleanor, with genuine sympathy in her tone. He smiles enigmatically. It is strange to him to be pitied by the little farmer's daughter when so many have envied his happy-go-lucky existence ere now. "The rain clouds are dispersing," he murmurs, as a stray ray of sunlight wanders through the barn door to mingle its glory with Eleanor's hair. How gold those tender silken threads appear under its burnishing hand! "What a pity! It has been such a refreshing shower!" "I feel quite young again," he declares, "young enough to play with the children for hours. What do you say to kiss in the ring again?" He presses her hand gently. She lifts her eyes to his with a slow shake of her head. "There is the vicar's wife to be considered." "Good gracious!" he laughs. "You don't mean I should have to kiss her?" Eleanor's face dimples all over in delightful smiles. "What an absurd idea!" she gasps gleefully. "I should just like to see you!" "I don't think it has _quite_ stopped," murmurs Philip, holding up his hands to the sky, and pretending the drops from the barn are rain themselves. "How silly you are!" cries Eleanor, mockingly, gathering up her skirts and revealing a well-turned ankle. "But, oh, isn't the grass soaking?" as Philip takes her arm and guides her to a narrow path. "The children will ruin their boots, and all go home with colds. Look, they are tearing about like mad things. How they will sleep to-night!" "I wonder what will become of them all in the years to follow, and why they have any existence whatsoever beneath the glimpses of the moon?"