Six weeks had passed away.

It was a splendid morning about the close of June.

Most of the hay was cut, but the last week had been very unfavourable; and now that fine weather was come at last, being determined to make the most of it, I had gathered all hands together into the hay-field, and was working away myself, in the midst of them, in my shirt-sleeves, with a light, shady straw hat on my head, catching up armfuls of moist, reeking grass, and shaking it out to the four winds of heaven, at the head of a goodly file of servants and hirelings--intending so to labour, from morning till night, with as much zeal and assiduity as I could look for from any of them, as well to prosper the work by my own exertion as to animate the workers by my example--when lo! my resolutions were overthrown in a moment, by the simple fact of my brother's running up to me and putting into my hand a small parcel, just arrived from London, which I had been for some time expecting.

I tore off the cover, and disclosed an elegant and portable edition of 'Marmion.' 'I guess I know who that's for,' said Fergus, who stood looking on while I complacently examined the volume.

'That's for Miss Eliza, now.' He pronounced this with a tone and look so prodigiously knowing, that I was glad to contradict him.
'You're wrong, my lad,' said I; and, taking up my coat, I deposited the book in one of its pockets, and then put it on (_i.e._ the coat).