He looks at me seriously and attentively, evidently neither agreeing nor contradicting this, to him, new idea.
He has a fresh, healthy, intelligent face, with hair just appearing on his chin and upper lip, and with intelligent grey eyes.
He leaves the plough, evidently wishing to have a rest, and inclined for a talk. I take the plough-handles, and touch the perspiring, well-fed, full-grown mare. She presses her weight into her collar, and I take a few steps. But I do not manage the plough, the share jumps out of the furrow, and I stop the horse.
"No, you can't do it."
"I have only spoilt your furrow."
"That doesn't matter—I'll put it right!"
He backs his horse, to plough the part I have missed, but does not go on ploughing.
"It is hot in the sun.... Let's go and sit under the bushes," says he, pointing to a little wood just across the field.
We go into the shade of the young birches. He sits down on the ground, and I stop in front of him.