emptiness of the field opposite, dutifully.

They stooped, grasped the wet, soft hair of the corn, lifted
the heavy bundles, and returned. She was always first. She set
down her sheaves, making a pent-house with those others. He was
coming shadowy across the stubble, carrying his bundles, She
turned away, hearing only the sharp hiss of his mingling corn.
She walked between the moon and his shadowy figure.

She took her two new sheaves and walked towards him, as he
rose from stooping over the earth. He was coming out of the near
distance. She set down her sheaves to make a new stook. They
were unsure. Her hands fluttered. Yet she broke away, and turned
to the moon, which laid bare her bosom, so she felt as if her
bosom were heaving and panting with moonlight. And he had to put
up her two sheaves, which had fallen down. He worked in silence.
The rhythm of the work carried him away again, as she was coming
near.

They worked together, coming and going, in a rhythm, which
carried their feet and their bodies in tune. She stooped, she
lifted the burden of sheaves, she turned her face to the dimness
where he was, and went with her burden over the stubble. She
hesitated, set down her sheaves, there was a swish and hiss of
mingling oats, he was drawing near, and she must turn again. And
there was the flaring moon laying bare her bosom again, making
her drift and ebb like a wave.

He worked steadily, engrossed, threading backwards and
forwards like a shuttle across the strip of cleared stubble,
weaving the long line of riding shocks, nearer and nearer to the
shadowy trees, threading his sheaves with hers.

And always, she was gone before he came. As he came, she drew
away, as he drew away, she came. Were they never to meet?
Gradually a low, deep-sounding will in him vibrated to her,
tried to set her in accord, tried to bring her gradually to him,
to a meeting, till they should be together, till they should
meet as the sheaves that swished together.

And the work went on. The moon grew brighter, clearer, the
corn glistened. He bent over the prostrate bundles, there was a
hiss as the sheaves left the ground, a trailing of heavy bodies
against him, a dazzle of moonlight on his eyes. And then he was
setting the corn together at the stook. And she was coming
near.

He waited for her, he fumbled at the stook. She came. But she
stood back till he drew away. He saw her in shadow, a dark
column, and spoke to her, and she answ