Everything on the plantation was full of the activity of spring. The great wheat fields in the distance showed a faint green upon the surface, although only the tenderest points of the wheat had pushed through the rich black earth. The woods were enveloped in a soft, green-grey haze, and the delicious smell of the newly ploughed ground was in the air. Afar off they could hear faintly the voices of the multitudes of black labourers, singing and laughing and chattering, as they drove the ploughs merrily. The thrushes and the blackbirds rioted musically in the trees, and a profligate robin roystered in a branch of the tall silver beech that grew directly under the window. The lawn was freshly and perfectly green, and the gravel walks were being lazily rolled by Sam Trotter, who was Bob Skinny’s coadjutor. The river was always beautiful, and the sun had turned it to molten gold. The great, dull, red-brick house, with its quaint peaks and gables, and the beautifully designed wings which had been added by Skelton, showed charmingly against the background of noble trees and the hedge of giant cedars which marked the pleasure grounds. A peacock sunned himself proudly on the stone steps which led down from the plateau on which the house stood, while on the marble porch, directly facing the peacock, stood Bob Skinny, superb in his blue coat and brass buttons and enormous shirt-ruffle, eying the peacock while the peacock eyed him. Neither one of them had anything better to do, although Bob occasionally called out a command to Sam Trotter about the way he was doing his work, which Sam received in contemptuous silence. Bulstrode was rather insusceptible to the charm of Nature and still life, but even he was deeply impressed with the beauty and plenty of the scene around him. Lewis felt it in the joyous, exhilarating way that young creatures feel pleasure before they have learned to think. He felt that it was good to live. Bulstrode was in his usual communicative mood. After denouncing horse racing as a foolish and inconsequent sport in general, he began to give his views about the Campdown races in particular. “Human nature is a queer thing,” said he to Lewis--he called it “natur’.” “Here are these races the whole county is mad about. You think it’s a comedy, hey, boy? Well, it’s not. It’s a tragedy--a tragedy, d’ye understand?” “There seems to be a fight over it all around,” said Lewis, who was alive to everything. “The parson’s against it. He’s a good man--ain’t he, Mr. Bulstrode?”