“The sickle was the lyric of the wheatfield, the reaping machine is the epic,” said Josephine, with a laugh at her attempt to satisfy an exacting recollection of a picture of Ruth, the Moabitess, with her sickle in a field flooded with moonlight, as well as an inexorable sense of what is due to the modern inventor. “My dearest,” said he, “I know now that you are happy. Are you happy, my dearest?” “Ah, happy, happy, happy!” she whispered, when their faces were only an inch or two apart. They watched the wood pigeons circling, and dip-. ping with the exceeding delicacy of cherubic wings until they dropped upon the surface of the freshly cleared space. They breathed the warm fragrance of the sun-saturated air, with now and again a whiff of the wild thyme that caused them to hear through the whir of the machinery the faint strain of a Shakesperian lyric floating above the oxlips and nodding violets of that bank beside them--and the sweet briar that was somewhere, loved of the wild bee. The sulphur butterflies went through their dances in the air, and more than one velvety butterfly in brown--a floating pansy--swung on the poppies of the path. “You are happy,” he said again. “Happy--happy, happy,” she repeated. Happiness was in her face--in her parted lips--in her half closed eyes--in the smile of the maiden who loves she knows not why, and she cares not whom. ***** She was not quite so happy when she had returned to her home two hours later and her father met her saying: “My dearest child, Ernest Clifton has been with me and he has persuaded me. Josephine, my child, I think of your happiness more than any earthly consideration. I have given my consent to your engagement. Kiss me, my Josephine.” CHAPTER XXV What could she say? What could she do on hearing this sentence pronounced by her father? He had impressed upon her the kiss of a father. It lay on her forehead and she could feel it there like the seal to a contract. It was his formality that made her feel there was nothing to be said or done further in the matter. When once a contract is sealed no one can do anything. Protest is useless. Submission is taken for granted. But to come up fresh from the glory of that wheatfield--every ear of grain seemed a unit in the sum of the love which was alive in that field--to come up to town by the side of the man whom she knew that she loved--his hand touching hers now and again--his eyes evermore drawing her own to meet them and to mix with them--his voice still in her heart--to leave him feeling certain of him--certain of the future, and then to hear her father speak that sentence and to feel that cold wax kiss of his on her forehead--oh, the thought of it all was suffocating. What could she say?