One by one the milkmaids settled in the grass and covered their faces with their hands, and went to sleep. But Jennifer remained where she was. She sat with downcast eyes, softly drawing the grassblade through and through her fingers, and the swing swayed a little like a branch moving in an imperceptible wind, and her breast heaved a little as though stirred with inaudible sighs. She sat so long like that that Martin knew she had forgotten he was beside her, and he quietly put out his hand to draw the grassblade from hers. But before he had even touched it he felt something fall upon his palm that was not rain or dew.
"Dear Mistress Jennifer," said Martin gently, "why do you weep?"
She shook her head, since there are times when the voice plays a girl false, and will not serve her.
"Is it," said Martin, "because the grass is not green enough?"
She nodded.
"Pray let me judge," entreated Martin, and took the grassblade from her fingers. Whereupon she put her face into her two hands, whispering:
"Master Pippin, Master Pippin, oh, Master Pippin."
"Let me judge," said Martin again, but in a whisper too.
Then Jennifer took her hands from her wet face, and looked at him with her wet eyes, and said with great braveness and much faltering:
"I will be nineteen in November."