“Jacob FLINT!” exclaimed the farmer's wife, with sudden agitation.
Jacob was scared and troubled. They had heard of him, he thought, and who knew what ridiculous stories? Susan noticed an anxiety on his face which she could not understand, but she unknowingly came to his relief.
“Why, mother,” she asked, “do you know Jacob's family?”
“No, I think not,” said her mother, “only somebody of the name, long ago.”
His offer, however, was gratefully accepted. The bright, hot summer days came and went, but no flower of July ever opened as rapidly and richly and warmly as his chilled, retarded nature. New thoughts and instincts came with every morning's sun, and new conclusions were reached with every evening's twilight. Yet as the wheat harvest drew towards the end, he felt that he must leave the place. The month of absence had gone by, he scarce knew how. He was free to return home, and, though he might offer to bridge over the gap between wheat and oats, as he had already done between hay and wheat, he imagined the family might hesitate to accept such an offer. Moreover, this life at Susan's side was fast growing to be a pain, unless he could assure himself that it would be so forever.
They were in the wheat-field, busy with the last sheaves; she raking and he binding. The farmer and younger children had gone to the barn with a load. Jacob was working silently and steadily, but when they had reached the end of a row, he stopped, wiped his wet brow, and suddenly said, “Susan, I suppose to-day finishes my work here.”
“Yes,” she answered very slowly.
“And yet I'm very sorry to go.”
“I—WE don't want you to go, if we could help it.”
Jacob appeared to struggle with himself. He attempted to speak. “If I could—” he brought out, and then paused. “Susan, would you be glad if I came back?”