All this Will saw, though he didn't appear to be looking. And when
Jim Wheelock-Dirty Jim-with his whip in his hand, came up and
playfully pretended to pour oil on her hair, and she laughingly
struck at him with a handful of straw, Will wouldn't have looked at
her if she had called him by name.

She looked so bright and charming in her snowy apron and her
boy's straw hat tipped jauntily over one pink ear that David and
Steve and Bill, and even Shep, found a way to get a word with her,
and the poor fellows in the high straw pile looked their
disappoimment and shook their forks in mock rage at the lucky
dogs on the ground. But Will worked on like a fiend, while the
dapples of light and shade fell on the bright face of the merry girl.

To save his soul from hell flames he couldn't have gone over there
and smiled at her. It was impossible. A wall of bronze seemed to
have arisen between them. Yesterday, last night, seemed a dream.
The clasp of her hands at his neck, the touch of her lips, were like
the caresses of an ideal in some dim reverie.

As night drew on, the men worked with a steadier, more
mechanical action. No one spoke now. Each man was intent on his
work. No one had any strength or breath to waste. The driver on
his power changed his weight on weary feet, and whistled and sang
at the tired horses. The feeder, his face gray with dust, rolled the
grain into the cylinder so even, so steady, so swift that it ran on
with a sullen, booming roar. Far up on the straw pile the stackers
worked with the steady, rhythmic action of men rowing a boat,
their figures looming vague and dim in the flying dust and chaff,
outlined against the glorious yellow and orange-tinted clouds.