"Ah! so I think, sir,—driving storm, and thrashing tempest!"
"Well, Adam?"
"Well, sir,—p'raps you've never seen w'ot driving rain, an' raging wind, can do among the 'op-bines, sir. All I wish is that they 'ops was all safe picked an' gathered, sir!" And Adam strode off with his eye still turned heaven-ward, and shaking his head like some great bird of ill-omen.
So the afternoon wore away to evening, and with evening, came Anthea; but a very grave-eyed, troubled Anthea, who sat at the tea-table silent, and preoccupied,—in so much, that Small Porges openly wondered, while Miss Priscilla watched over her, wistful, and tender.
Thus, Tea, which was wont to be the merriest meal of the day, was but the pale ghost of what it should have been, despite Small Porges' flow of conversation, (when not impeded by bread and jam), and Bellew's tactful efforts. Now while he talked light-heartedly, keeping carefully to generalities, he noticed two things,—one was that Anthea made but a pretence at eating, and the second, that though she uttered a word, now and then, yet her eyes persistently avoided his.
Thus, he, for one, was relieved when tea was over, and, as he rose from the table, he determined, despite the unpropitious look of things, to end the suspense, one way or another, and speak to Anthea just so soon as she should be alone.
But here again he was balked and disappointed, for when Small Porges came to bid him good-night as usual, he learned that "Auntie Anthea" had already gone to bed.
"She says it's a head-ache," said Small Porges, "but I 'specks it's the hops, really, you know."
"The hops, my Porges?"
"She's worrying about them,—she's 'fraid of a storm, like Adam is. An' when she worries,—I worry. Oh Uncle Porges!—if only my prayers can bring the Money Moon—soon, you know,—very soon! If they don't bring it in a day or two,—'fraid I shall wake up, one fine morning, an' find I've worried, an' worried myself into an old man."