Gladys, the Reaper
CHAPTER I. THE FARMER'S WIFE. It is an evening in June, and the skies that have been weeping of late, owing to some calamity best known to themselves, have suddenly dried their eyes, and called up a smile to enliven their gloomy countenances. The farmers, who have been shaking their heads at sight of the unmown grass, and predicting a bad hay-harvest, are beginning to brighten up with the weather, and to consult upon the propriety of mowing to-morrow. The barometer is gently tapped by many a sturdy hand, and the result is favourable; so that there are good prospects of a few weeks' sunshine to atone for the late clouds. Sunshine: how gracious it is just now! Down yonder in the west, that ancient of days, the sun throws around him his evening glory, and right royally he does it. The rain-covered meadows glow beneath it, like so many lakes--the river looks up rejoicing, and the distant mountains are wrapped in garments dyed in the old king's own regal colours. The woods look as smooth and glossy as the braided locks of maidens prepared for
"I thought you might like to," she explained.
"Well, I wouldn't,--I--I don't think the name's pretty in itself," he
declared; adding, with a great effort to speak naturally, "I'd rather
name her for you."
Charlotte's lips came together so closely that all the unpleasant
lines showed around them. "I certainly shall not name her for myself,"
she said. "You must think of some other name."
Blake got to his feet. "That's the only one I can think of," he said.
"If you don't like it, you can take some other. It's your affair, not
mine."
Charlotte's eyes flashed and then filled with tears, for she was very
weak. "If I were asking you to father some other man's child, you
couldn't act more as if you despised me," she sobbed.
He turned as he was leaving the room and gave her a long look full of
exasperation, repugnance, and despair. "You are quite mistaken," he
said. "I don't despise you. I despise myself."
For half an hour Charlotte sobbed, her hands clenched at her sides,
her tears flowing unchecked; then, quite suddenly, she was calm, and,
drying her disfigured face, she began to take account of stock. All
CHAPTER I. THE FARMER'S WIFE. It is an evening in June, and the skies that have been weeping of late, owing to some calamity best known to themselves, have suddenly dried their eyes, and called up a smile to enliven their gloomy countenances. The farmers, who have been shaking their heads at sight of the unmown grass, and predicting a bad hay-harvest, are beginning to brighten up with the weather, and to consult upon the propriety of mowing to-morrow. The barometer is gently tapped by many a sturdy hand, and the result is favourable; so that there are good prospects of a few weeks' sunshine to atone for the late clouds. Sunshine: how gracious it is just now! Down yonder in the west, that ancient of days, the sun throws around him his evening glory, and right royally he does it. The rain-covered meadows glow beneath it, like so many lakes--the river looks up rejoicing, and the distant mountains are wrapped in garments dyed in the old king's own regal colours. The woods look as smooth and glossy as the braided locks of maidens prepared for