"The sickle has not been in the upper meadows yet, and if they finish to-night it will be a good thing.

It's a fine moon for work.

_A fine moon, God bless her!_ Hark! There is the song I have been waiting for, and all's well, Charlotte." And they stood still to listen to the rumble of the wagon, and the rude, hearty chant that at intervals accompanied it:-- "Blest be the day that Christ was born! The last sheaf of Sandal corn Is well bound, and better shorn.
Hip, hip, hurrah!" "Good-evening, squire." The speaker had come quickly around one of the garden hedges, and his voice seemed to fall out of mid-air.

Charlotte turned, with eyes full of light, and a flush of color that made her exceedingly handsome.
"Well-a-mercy! Good-evening, Stephen.

When did you get home?
Nobody had heard tell.