“Three cheers for the Queen o’ the Day!” shouted someone, and the cry was taken up by a score of lusty voices.
“Three cheers for the best wife in Riverton!”
“Let me down,” gasped Mrs Crumpler faintly; but an extra pair of horses had been harnessed to the waggon, and it was now rumbling forward at what seemed to her a dangerously rapid rate.
There sat the poor little woman on her sweet-smelling throne, the reluctant centre of all eyes, while the waggon went out of the field and down the village street surrounded by a shouting band of haymakers. Outraged matrons stood in the doorways raising indignant eyes to Heaven, delighted children ran after the convoy, adding their shrill voices to the chorus; last of all Jarge Crumpler himself, startled by the outcry, made his way to his own gate just as the triumphal procession drew up before it.
“Three cheers for the best wife in Riverton!” shouted Bill Frost; and “Hooray, hooray!” cried the bystanders.
Jarge himself, infected by the enthusiasm, shouted “Hooray” too, just as little Sally, very red in the face, came sliding down from the waggon.
As she heard him she stopped for a second, threw a reproachful glance at him, and then, bursting into smothered sobs, hurried into the house.
After a pause of bewilderment he hastened after her, while the haymakers, with a farewell cheer, continued their progress at a more leisurely pace, with a dozen children clinging to the tail-board of the waggon, and one or two of the more adventurous perched on the load itself.
Sally was crouching behind the door with her apron over her head, sobbing as if her heart would break.
“Missus!” said Jarge, becoming quite sober all at once, and seeing only the very distinct outline of one little sorrowful figure. “Missus!—little ’ooman!”