moment there against the sky, amid the brightness and fragrance of the gold corn, and waved his arm to his wife who was passing in the shadow of the building. Then Arthur began to lift the sheaves to the stack, and the two men worked in an exquisite, subtle rhythm, their white sleeves and their dark heads gleaming, moving against the mild sky and the corn. The silence was broken only by the occasional lurch of the body of the wagon, as the teamer stepped to the front, or again to the rear of the load. Occasionally I could catch the blue glitter of the prongs of the forks. Tom, now lifted high above the small wagon load, called to his brother some question about the stack. The sound of his voice was strong and mellow.
I turned to George, who also was watching, and said:
“You ought to be like that.”
We heard Tom calling, “All right!” and saw him standing high up on the tallest corner of the stack, as on the prow of a ship.
George watched, and his face slowly gathered expression. He turned to me, his dark eyes alive with horror and despair.
“I shall soon—be out of everybody’s way!” he said. His moment of fear and despair was cruel. I cursed myself for having roused him from his stupor.
“You will be better,” I said.
He watched again the handsome movement of the men at the stack.
“I couldn’t team ten sheaves,” he said.
“You will in a month or two,” I urged.
