"
"She was a very kind young lady," said Mount Dunstan, "and you were in
luck."
He gave a few coppers to the children and strode on his way. The glow
was hot in his heart, and he held his head high.
"She has gone by," he said. "She has gone by."
He knew he should find her at West Ways Farm, and he did so. Slim and
straight as a young birch tree, and elate with her ride in the morning
air, she stood silhouetted in her black habit against the ancient
whitewashed brick porch as she talked to Bolter.
"I have been drinking a glass of milk and asking questions about hops,"
she said, giving him her hand bare of glove. "Until this year I have
never seen a hop garden or a hop picker."
After the exchange of a few words Bolter respectfully melted away and
left them together.
"It was such a wonderful day that I wanted to be out under the sky for
a long time--to ride a long way," she explained. "I have been looking at
hop gardens as I rode. I have watched them all the summer--from the time
when there was only a little thing with two or three pale green leaves
looking imploringly all the way up to the top of each immensely tall
hop pole, from its place in the earth at the bottom of it--as if it was
saying over and over again, under its breath, 'Can I get up there? Can
I get up? Can I do it in time? Can I do it in time?' Yes, that was
what they were saying, the little bold things.
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