'In March?'
'I had the rheumatism bad in March.'
'Well, then,' concluded Cicely, 'now just change your coat and come to-day. Jump up in the pony-trap—we will make room.'
'To-day!' in hopeless bewilderment, his breath quite taken away at the idea of such sudden action. 'Couldn't do't—couldn't do't. Got to go down to Thirty Acre Corner: got to get out the reaping machine—a' wants oiling, a' reckon; got some new hurdles coming; 'spects a chap to call about them lambs;' a farmer can always find a score of reasons for doing nothing.
'All rubbish!' cried Cicely, smiling.
'Nieces be main peart now-a-days,' said he, shutting one eye and keeping it closed, as much as to say—I won't be driven. Then to me, 'There won't be many at market to-day.'
'I am hungry,' said Cicely softly; 'I should like some bread and honey.'
'Aw; should 'ee?' in gentler tones; 'I'll get 'ee some: will'ee have it in th' comb? I got a bit left.'
She knew his pride in his bees and his honey; hill farmers still keep large stocks. He brought her a slice of home-baked bread and a piece of comb. She took the comb in her white fingers, and pressed the liquid gold from the cells; the luscious sweetness gathered from a thousand flowers making her lips still sweeter. Uncle Bennet offered me a jar full to the brim: 'Dip your vinger in,' said he.
'Why is the honey of the hills so much nicer?' asked Cicely, well knowing, but drawing him on.