Colonel Barrington, however, sighed a little as he looked at them, and remembered that such a harvest might have been his.
"We will get down and walk towards the wheat," he said.

"It is a good crop and Lance is to be envied." "Still," said Miss Barrington, "he deserved it, and those sheaves stand for more than the toil that brought them there." "Of course!" said the Colonel, with a curious little smile.

"For rashness, I fancied, when they showed the first blade above the clod, but I am less sure of it now.

Well, the wheat is even finer." A man who came up took charge of the horses, and the party walked in silence towards the wheat.

It stretched before them in a vast parallelogram, and while the oats were the pale gold of the austral, there was the tint of the ruddier metal of their own Northwest in this.
It stood tall and stately, murmuring as the sea does, until it rolled before a stronger puff of breeze in waves of ochre, through which the warm bronze gleamed when its rhythmic patter swelled into deeper-toned harmonies.