Crops, even in that fair and fertile county, would fail, cattle would die, rain would fall when it should not, and the sun refuse to shine.

But this year everything had gone on well; the hay stood in great ricks in the farm yard, the golden corn waved in the fields ripe and ready for the sickle, the cows and sheep fed tranquilly in the meadows, and all things had prospered with Stephen Thorne.

One thing only weighed upon his heart--his wife would have it that Dora's letters grew more and more sad; she declared her child was unhappy, and he could not persuade her to the contrary.
It was a fair August evening.

Ah! How weak and feeble are the words.
Who could paint the golden flush of summer beauty that lay over the meadows and corn fields--the hedge rows filled with wild flowers, the long, thick grass studded with gay blossoms, the calm, sullen silence only broken by the singing of the birds, the lowing of cattle, the rustling of green leaves in the sweet soft air?
Stephen Thorne had gone with his guest and visitor, Ralph Holt, to fetch the cattle home.

In Ralph's honor, good, motherly Mrs.Thorne had laid out a beautiful tea--golden honey that seemed just gathered from the flowers, ripe fruits, cream from the dairy everything was ready; yet the farmer and his guest seemed long in coming.