Constant intercourse with a polished man like Arthur Tracy had not been without its effect upon her, and there was about her an air which with strangers would have placed her at once above the ordinary level of simple country girls.
This Harold had been the first to detect, and though he rejoiced at Jerry's good fortune, there was always with him a dread lest she should grow beyond him, and that he should lose the girl he loved so much.
'What if she should think me a clown and a clodhopper, as Tom Tracy does ?' he said to himself, as he watched her raking up the hay faster, and quite as well as he could have done himself.

'I believe I should want to die.' It was impossible that Jerry should have guessed the nature of Harold's thoughts, but once, as she passed near him, she dropped her rake, and going up to him, wiped his forehead with her apron, and, kissing him fondly, said to him: 'Poor, tired boy, is your head awful?
You look as if you wanted to vomit?
Do you ?' 'No, Jerry,' Harold answered, laughingly.

'I am not as bad as that.

I was only thinking and wishing that I were rich and could sometime give you and grandma a home as handsome as Tracy Park.

How would you like it ?' 'First-rate, if you were there,' Jerry replied; 'but if you were not I shouldn't like it at all.