and shout, that rose and continued till night had come. You saw Martin go big and lusty across the stubble; saw Jane bending over a swathe, or swinging a rake, or stooking sheaves, or carrying armfuls of crackling hay, or twisting ropes, or turning to watch Martin as he toiled. This was what Jane enjoyed, this made fitting close to any glorious day. How good to have the sunshine beating hot, the air so pure and large, so full of the softness and fragrance of summer; to see the bounty of yellow corn, the clean sweep of gathered meadow, the bronzed workers hurrying and striving; to feel glad and contented oneself, the world so hopeful, life so joyous, her Martin out there so commanding.

Her Martin? He was such a fine man. She rejoiced in his strength, in his comely vigour. He towered as a giant among the rest, sunburnt and masterful. No one dared to thwart him. His word was law. Even in anger, when James was clumsy or a horse stubborn, his shout moved her blood. To see him raise an arm in quick command, to see him leaning upon a rake, pondering and planning, to see his great brown arms, his swelling muscles, his

swinging stride, to hear him shout and laugh, to have just a word from him as they stood among the swathes; such hearing and seeing worked admiration in Jane, full and generous. Her Martin? So fortunate she was. See him now and now! What if he gave her no more than a word, seldom glanced at her face? What if he sat silent through a meal sometimes, or dropped asleep of evenings in his chair? What if they rode sometimes from Drumhill to Armoy, or walked to preaching from Hillside to Leemore, and never exchanged a word? Words were not necessary, nor looks. His mind was busy with plans and affairs. He was weary at night, in haste at table. Just now work was everything, long constant work in face of the sun. She must be wise. She must be content to stand and admire, to wait patiently in full surety of her own happiness and of Martin's love. Soon, in a month or more, work would be over and Martin with her always; soon, in an hour or less, the day would be done, and together they would go slowly across the fields, on through the sweet peace and shadows of evening towards home.

IN

CHAPTER IX

The

N the autumn, when harvest was done, Martin kept his promise and took Jane for a holiday. It was to Kyle they went, out into the wilds of Donegal, where the Erne finishes its course at the Atlantic coast. days were fine, with no more than the booming winds to mar their peace; the little village, struggling white and aimlessly along the high bare cliff, was full of wholesomeness; the air was like wine for potency, the sea like crystal for purity: you had but to eat and sleep, and, for the rest, sit placidly on rock or beach drawing health into your blood. All day long the waves rolled in and tumbled upon the sand, or crashed against the cliffs; all through the night, the long fresh night, their sound came up, muffled like funeral drums, and filled the darkness with moaning-a sound like thunder everlastingly.

Standing by the doorway, her face to the

stars that looked upon the empty street, or kneeling by her bedside, Jane used to catch that sound and be filled with a peace that passeth understanding. Even so she had felt on old Sabbath evenings in autumn-time, when the light had faded beyond the windows and gloom spread among the pews, and the Rector's voice came softly through the hush giving benediction.

It was the first real holiday of her life, the first break almost in the horizon that bounded home, her first sight of the sea; and Jane was all delight. She might have been a child, so thorough was she in enjoying, so artless in her expression of pleasure. Everything was new, beautiful, wonderful; nothing could be better in any world. Such air and freshness, such a sky, such cliffs and rocks and sand; such a sea! There was only one word for it all-the great word of Gorteen: it was powerful.

'I could sit here for ever,' she would say, the place being the bare south cliff, or the height that overlooks the Stook, or no more than the long slope of stunted grass that curves above the beach. 'It's great-it's wonderful-it's powerful. Ah, that big wide sea!'

'Ay,' Martin would say, resting on his elbow and looking seawards through a cloud of tobacco smoke. 'Ay, 'tis.'

but

'Never did I think 'twas like this. I used to hear mother tell about it; an' Sam Mires came here for a week one time; an' I've seen pictures of it an' read about it sure- Ah, what can words do, or pictures? Look, Martin, at the white waves comin' in ; an' listen to the roar of them-the lions' roar.'

'Ay. Yes, indeed.'

'Think of the size of it, Martin-away an' away, out an' away, beyond an' beyond, for thousands an' thousands of miles. Think of thousands of miles like that, all flat an' blue, with only a wee ship here an' there upon it, an' no land for days an' days. Ah, the loneliness there must be. I'd die of fear to be away out there. Thousands of miles of blue flat sea! Martin, have ye thought that away beyond is America-over the other side?' 'Why, to be sure. America? Ah, wouldn't I like to be there this minute. Think of the yards in Chicago !'

'Ah, yes.'

Jane would pause, trying to