'Why, she has no more colour in her face than this tablecloth, and I don't believe she has any eyes at all; at least, I never saw them; but I mean to try whether she has any some day, by making a frightful noise when she drops me that smart curtsey in passing.' 'I am sure we want hands badly enough in the wheat field, said Farmer Prothero.

'If the girl could pick up her crumbs a little by harvesting, you could keep her a while longer, and then send her off in search of her relations.' 'Thank you, David.

I will ask her what she can do,' said Mrs Prothero.
'Not much in that way, I am pretty sure,' said Netta.

'How should those wretched Irish, who live on nothing but potatoes, know any thing about the wheat harvest ?' 'Treue for you there, my girl,' said Mr Prothero, 'but I daresay mother will make believe that she knows something.
'Mother' found the object of their conversation that very evening in the wheat field, sitting under a tree, at work.

She had sent her out for a walk, and this was her exercise.