er and the
crops and the prospects of the harvest, and then, seeing Sheila going
across the yard, he had followed her.

"Well?" she said, looking at him quizzically.

He did not know what to say, so he stood there smiling at her. Her arms
were bare to the bend, and the neck of her blouse was open so that he
saw her firm, brown throat.

"Well!" he replied, still smiling, and "Well?" she said again.

She went into the byre, and he followed her to the door, and stood
peering into the dark interior where a sick cow lay lowing softly.

"Is that all you have to say for yourself?" Sheila called to him.

"I have a whole lot to say," he replied, "but I don't know how to say
it!"

She laughed at that, and he liked the strong, quick sound of her
laughter. "You're the quare wee fella," she exclaimed.

_Wee fellow!_ He flushed and straightened himself.

"I was passing along the road," he said stiffly, "and I thought I'd come
up and see your uncle!..."

"Oh!" she answered.

"Yes. My father was wondering yesterday how he was getting on, so I just
thought I'd come over and see him. I suppose you're busy?"

"You suppose right!"

He moved a step or two away from the door of the byre. "Then I won't
hinder you in your work," he said.

"You're not hinderin' me," she replied, coming out of the dark byre as
she spoke. "It would take the quare man to hinder _me_! Where's Mr.
Marsh this mornin'?"

"Oh, somewhere!"

"I thought you an' him was always thegether. You're always about
anyway!"

He felt strangely boyish while she was talking. Last night, when he had
drawn her to him and had kissed her soft, moist lips, he had felt
suddenly adult. While his arms were about her, he was conscious of
manhood, of something new in his life, something that he had been
growing to, but until that moment had not yet reached ... and now,
standing in the strong sunlight and looking into her firm, laughing
eyes, his manhood seemed to have receded from him, and once more he was
... a wee fellow, a schoolboy, a bit of a lad.... His vexation must have
been apparent in his expression, for she said "What ails you?" to him.

"Nothing," he replied, turning away.

It was she who was making him feel schoolboyish again. She looked so
capable and so assured, standing outside the byre-door, with a small
crock in her hands, that he felt that she was many years older than he
was, that she knew far more than he could hope to know for a long
time....