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188 whose looks I should mind about as much as the stare of that cow yonder? I am going by myself."

"Very well," he says, sitting down on the stile, "I will wait here until you come back!"

Now, if there be anything harassing, it is to know that some one is waiting for you round the corner, and counting the minutes to your arrival. To enjoy one's self is impossible—some of his discomfort is passed on to you, and the result is nasty.

"I always thought," I say, with dignity, "that when a person was not wanted, he generally went."

"Thank you!" says George, jumping up with alacrity. "I won't require you to say that twice."

And away he stalks, his head well up, while take the seat Le has just left vacant, and congratulate myself on the success of that last shot. Really I never saw him go away so quickly before! What a nice back he has! How well he walks! he ought to have been a soldier! He is really cross this time, for he does not turn his head once.

And now for a rush across that burning, broiling, expanse of grain. I fly along so fast, my feet scarcely touch the ground, and as I go I sing a verse of the old, old song—

I never could sing a bit, but there is no one by to hear me, and I feel so unaccountably joyously happy, as though I must make a noise. With my head bent to avoid the level glare of the sun, I see nothing approaching me, and rush head foremost into a black something "I beg your pardon!" I say, as I hastily recoil, and put up my hand to tear off my ridiculous wreath. "I beg your pardon." (And then I lift my eyes and see that this something is Paul Vasher. And I stand staring at him with my poppy wreath in my hand, mute as a stock-fish—I, who have the longest,