Clouds of golden dust, starred here and there by a silver thistle-down, shimmered out of the barn door; there was an aroma of crushed straw, a scent of charred wood from the engine fire, a sense of eager, healthy life.
The swallows flew agitatedly above the barn, yearning over their clay nests beneath its eaves.
“What are you doing?” asked Vashti.
“Measuring,” said Lanty. “Uncle said he’d take the bushel for a little though when he saw your petticoats out here——”
“Who’s in the mow?”
“Ab Ranger is cutting bands, and he’s let my bone-handled pruning knife go through the mill; Tom Shinar is feeding; there’s three on the mow and four on the stack.”
“How is it turning out?”
“Splendidly, no straw to speak of, but finely headed—like you, Mabella,” he whispered, blushing through the dust.
“Come on here, Lanty,” roared a voice from the barn. “You can spark in the noon-spell if you want to.”
A laugh followed. Mabella blushed hotly, and as a maiden is expected to do under the circumstances, looked absently into vacancy.