Now there was no nonsense about George. How those cows did eat, all day long, and when they weren’t eating they were chewing over again. And George had been quite nice lately. He had even said something, rather surly and rude, and she had been rude back. At any rate it was a beginning. Funny George, he was so powerful, his hands looked as if they could hurt you so, not like John with that awful face always screwed up with his scars; you were frightened of him in a horrid way. John was clever right enough, but there wasn’t much to those clever ones. While George could do anything with those hands. The beech tree looked very big this morning, with the damp lying on his trunk in sticky patches. But the weather was clearing, and it felt so fresh this morning. There were the chickens to feed. Roses, roo-zez, all the way. Getting some grain out of a cupboard in the kitchen, she went to the hut and let the chickens out. The cock was quiet and dignified this morning, rather sleepy. But as soon as he was in the yard he challenged the world and then scratched over a stone. The hens at once began to bustle about anxiously. When June scattered the grain they hurried to each fresh handful, while the cock asserted himself in the intervals of eating. She laughed at them as she always did, and cried “Chuck, chuck,” and they clucked back with choking voices. She sauntered away and stood looking at the trees over the river. There had been a new man on the milk lorry yesterday, which was exciting. He had such a nice smile, and all for her as she leant over the gate. He would be going by again about half-past two, she would be there. Perhaps he had come for good, and had taken the place of the one with the wicked face. He had had two lives, that one. But the new man was a dream, with fair, fair hair and his blue eyes that danced. It was nice to have somebody new. There was a lot new to-day. Funny how sometimes you suddenly saw everything different. The chickens looked just like old women going round to tea-parties, and the cock like that old Colonel who used to call Father “Padre.” They were well out of that. That was John’s life, and--well, he was done with, anyway. Three weeks and not a word, but then that was like him. Probably there would be three letters one after the other in a week’s time, he was all moods. Nice the way the wind blew the sleep from off you. Father’s voice from the window: “Is breakfast ready?” “In a minute.” “Oh, it’s all right. Don’t hurry.” “I won’t.” Oh, why was she so happy to-day? And he was too, you could tell by his voice, he never spoke like that unless things were going well. She hugged her arms. The way that hawk hovered. Where was Minnie? She called: “Minnie, Minnie.” He would turn up in a minute or two. He was always coming from nowhere, so to speak. You looked down and there he was, rubbing his back against your leg, quite uncanny it was. She turned and went back into the house. There was Father coming downstairs.