le. She was fertile in preventing an opportunity; and if the
opportunity came, she was equally fertile in spoiling it. But Julius had
patience; and patience is the art and secret of hoping. A woman cannot
always be on guard, and he believed in not losing heart, and in waiting.
Sooner or later, the happy moment when success would be possible was
certain to arrive.

One day in the early part of September, the squire asked his wife for
all the house-servants she could spare. "A few more hands will bring
home the harvest to-night," he said; "and it would be a great thing to
get it in without a drop of rain."

So the men and maids went off to the wheat-fields, as if they were going
to a frolic; and there was a happy sense of freedom, with the picnicky
dinner, and the general air of things being left to themselves about the
house. After an unusually merry lunch, Julius proposed a walk to the
harvest-field, and Sophia and Charlotte eagerly agreed to it.

It was a joy to be out of doors under such a sky. The intense,
repressing greens of summer were now subdued and shaded. The air was
subtle and fragrant. Amber rays shone through the boughs. The hills were
clothed in purple. An exquisite, impalpable haze idealized all nature.
Right and left the reapers swept their sharp sickles through the ripe
wheat. The women went after them, binding the sheaves, and singing among
the yellow swaths shrill, wild songs, full of simple modulations.

The squire's field was busy as a fair; and the idle young people sat
under the oaks, or walked slowly in the shadow of the hedges, pulling
poppies and wild flowers, and realizing all the poetry of a pastoral
life, without any of its hard labor or its vulgar cares. Mrs. Sandal had
given them a basket with berries and cake and cream in it. They were all
young enough to get pleasantly hungry in the open air, all young enough
to look upon berries and cake and cream as a distinct addition to
happiness. They set out a little feast under the trees, and called the
squire to come and taste their dainties.

He was standing, without his coat and vest, on the top of a loaded wain,
the very embodiment of a jovial, handsome, country gentleman. The reins
were in his hand; he was going to drive home the wealthy wagon; but he
stopped and stooped, and Charlotte, standing on tip-toes, handed him a
glass of cream. "God love thy bonny face," he said, with a beaming
smile, as he handed her back the empty glass. Then o