"I had a presentiment that I should find you," she said. "I wanted to have a talk with you when no one was by. Here you are, and here am I."
"Mornin', ma'am," said Vincent awkwardly.
"Good-morning," answered, Mrs. Everett. "The day is a beautiful one," she continued; "it will be hot by and by."
Vincent did not think it necessary to reply to this.
"I'm due in the five-acre field," he said, after a long pause. "I beg pardon, ma'am, but I must be attending to my dooties."
"If you wish to cross that field," said Mrs. Everett, "I have not the least objection to accompanying you."
Vincent hesitated. He glanced at the five-barred gate as if he meant to vault over it, then he looked at the lady; she was standing perfectly motionless, her arms hanging straight at her sides; she came a step or two nearer to him.
"Look you 'ere," he said then, suddenly. "I'm a plain body—a man, so to speak, of one idee. There are the men yonder waitin' to fall to with the spring turnips, and 'ere am I waitin' to give 'em orders, and 'ere you are, ma'am, waitin' to say sum'mat. Now I can't attend to the men and to you at the same time, so p'raps you'll speak out, ma'am, and go."
"I quite understand your position," said Mrs. Everett. "I would much rather speak out. I have come here to say something about your wife."
"Ay," said Vincent, folding his arms, "it's mighty queer what you should 'ave to say 'bout Hetty."