"Ay, so be it for the 'ops, miss," grinned the old man.
"I don't believe it," cried I.
He took me by the arm and led me forward to the edge of the cliff, whence we could see the marsh in its whole wide expanse. The day, as I had said, had been very hot, but the sun had set now—it was full seven o'clock, and the long twilight had begun her peaceful reign, exquisite in sober tints and fragrant coolness of silent air. The plain was slowly sinking into mystery, but silver-gray upon the bosom of the dikes, clearly defining their long, straight lines wherever they crossed the marsh; ribbons of white mist unrolled themselves in the dim light.
"They're thicker than that back yonder," said he, "where the 'op-gardens be."
"Well, what harm do the mists do?" laughed I. "The hops haven't got the rheumatics."
"Nay, miss, but the mists, this 'ot weather, and the scalding sun atop'll spoil 'em worse nor they'll 'arm my old bones. They'll be as brown as brushwood."
Reuben delivered this speech in a low tragic whisper, and with the most ominous of expressions, holding my arm the while.
"Oh, Reuben, you always were a gloomy creature," said I. "I believe you like making the worst of things."
"Nay, it's the Lord's doing," said Reuben, piously; "but if he had a-planted Early Perlifics they would ha' been all safe and garnered by now."
"Well, it isn't you that'll be afflicted if the hops fail, Reuben," said I, tartly, "so you needn't be so pious and resigned over it;" and with that I walked off back into the house.