She does not note the subtle tint of bronze that has begun to steal over the wheat, nor the dark discoloured hay, witness of rough weather, still lying in the meadows.

Her face--it is a very pretty face--does not light up with any enthusiasm as well-remembered spots come into sight.

A horseman rides round a bend of the road, and meets them--he stares hard at her--she takes no heed.

It is a young farmer, an old acquaintance, anxious for some sign of recognition.

After he has passed he lifts his hat, like a true countryman, unready at the moment.