"Ho!" she said, "and pray where do you propose to sleep?"

"I shall nest under the rick-straddle."

"Sir," and her tone was almost unpleasant, "for the modesty you attribute
unto me, I thank you. For the gratitude you decline to attribute unto me,
I dislike you. But pray give me credit for a little common sense. I shall
desire your services in the morning, and I do not want to find you under a
rick, frozen to a fossil."

"No, madam."

She sprang out of bed, tumbling the hay in all directions.

"Master Wheatman, I will not pretend to misunderstand you, and indeed, I
thank you, but you are going to put your bed here," stamping her foot, "so
that we can talk without raising our voices. I am much more willing to
sleep in the same barn with you than in the same town with my Lord
Brocton. Where's your share of the sacks?"

I did without sacks, but I fetched more chunks of hay, and she helped me
strew a bed for myself close up to her own. I tucked her up once more, and
then made myself cosy. I was miserable lest I should snore. Yokels so
often do. Joe Braggs, for instance, would snore till the barn door rattled.

I remembered the cordial, and we each had a good pull at the flask. I
felt for days the touch of her smooth, soft fingers on mine as she took it.

"It certainly does warm you up," she said. "I feel all aglow without and