"Fox is away—I believe he is at Hall. But I can answer your question, and grant your petition, which I do with a ready heart. How many men do you want? I will send all you desire—I will come myself and help toss the hay—No," she checked herself, as the thought of Urith rose within, "no, I will not go near Willsworthy myself, but I will send the workmen."
"I thank you," answered Anthony. "We do not grow rich shears of hay as you do here; but what does grow is said to be sweet. I hope it may be so, for it is not over-much."
There was a tone of disparagement in reference to Willsworthy that struck Julian.
"I have heard Fox comment on the place," she said, "and he thinks well of it."
"A thing may look well at a distance, that won't bear looking into close at hand," said Anthony.
She looked at him, and his eyes fell. He had not meant more than he had said, but when she thus glanced up with a query in her eyes, he thought that perhaps his words might apply to other things than grass fields and tumble-down farm buildings.
Julian took up the letter from the seat by her, and passed her hand lightly over the seat, as a sign to him to take it.
He did so, without more ado. He was heated and tired with his walk.
Then Julian resumed her embroidery, and bowed her head over it. She waited for him to start some topic of conversation. But he was silent. He who had formerly been full of talk and mirth, had become reserved and grave.