"I didn't main it that way," he said, digging another hole in the gravel. "I was thinkin' of myself. The farm ain't as good as I took it to be."
"But it will mend every year."
"Ef it don't I shall wish I never see'd it. The crops are lookin' only very middlin', I can assure 'ee."
"Sorry to hear that. But what about the hay-field?"
"I 'spose you've got a scythe?"
"I can get one, in any case."
"Well, 'spose we say done!" And Jenkins contemplated the evening sky again with considerable interest.
Afterwards Ralph wished that he had found work for his spare time almost anywhere rather than on Hillside Farm. There was not a single thing that did not remind him in some way of the past. He would raise his head unconsciously, expecting to see his father working by his side. The flutter of Mrs. Jenkins' print dress in the garden would cause the word "mother" to leap to his lips unbidden, and when the daylight faded, and the moon began to peep over the hill, he would turn his face towards the house, fancying that Ruth was calling him to supper.
He finished the task at length, and dropped his hard-earned silver into his pocket.
"It'll be a dear crop of hay for me, I'm thinkin'," Jenkins said lugubriously.