shadowy trees; threading his sheaves with hers。
And always; she was gone before he came。 As he came; she drew
away; as he drew away; she came。 Were they never to meet?
Gradually a low; deep…sounding will in him vibrated to her;
tried to set her in accord; tried to bring her gradually to him;
to a meeting; till they should be together; till they should
meet as the sheaves that swished together。
And the work went on。 The moon grew brighter; clearer; the
corn glistened。 He bent over the prostrate bundles; there was a
hiss as the sheaves left the ground; a trailing of heavy bodies
against him; a dazzle of moonlight on his eyes。 And then he was
setting the corn together at the stook。 And she was ing
near。
He waited for her; he fumbled at the stook。 She came。 But she
stood back till he drew away。 He saw her in shadow; a dark
column; and spoke to her; and she answered。 She saw the
moonlight flash question on his face。 But there was a space
between them; and he went away; the work carried them;
rhythmic。
Why was there always a space between them; why were they
apart? Why; as she came up from under the moon; would she halt
and stand off from him? Why was he held away from her? His will
drummed persistently; darkly; it drowned everything else。
Into the rhythm of his work there came a pulse and a steadied
purpose。 He stooped; he lifted the weight; he heaved it towards
her; setting it as in her; under the moonlit space。 And he went
back for more。 Ever with increasing closeness he lifted the
sheaves and swung striding to the centre with them; ever he
drove her more nearly to the meeting; ever he did his share; and
drew towards her; overtaking her。 There was only the moving to
and fro in the moonlight; engrossed; the swinging in the
silence; that was marked only by the splash of sheaves; and
silence; and a splash of sheaves。 And ever the splash of his
sheaves broke swifter; beating up to hers; and ever the splash
of her sheaves recurred monotonously; unchanging; and ever the
splash of his sheaves beat nearer。