CHAPTER VIII

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