And so it was decided that when November came a wonderful thing should happen. But in the meantime the summer lingered, and John Dallington was in love with it. One fine morning he said, “I am amazed at the manner in which English people libel their own climate. Never were such perfect summer days as these; nor is there, in any part of the world, grander harvest scenery.” As he spoke his eyes looked lovingly over the prospect before him, which was, indeed, a pleasant one. The remark was made to two of his cousins, Edith and Tom, who had ridden over to Darentdale with a message from their father, and having delivered it to the young farmer, whom they found where he ought to have been, among his fields, were lingering by his side. John’s hand was on the neck of the horse on which his youngest cousin sat, and she glanced at him with a smile half merry and half sad as he spoke. “Yes, I am glad that for once the season is behaving properly,” she said. “It does not often, and it is well that you should not find everything disappointing. All your hay is safely in, I see; so is ours, and father is better tempered than ever in consequence. But don’t be too sanguine. Remember the proverb, ‘Blessed is he that expecteth nothing, for he shall not be disappointed.’ I should be sorry to suggest evil; but there are such things, even in this magnificent English climate, as storms of wind and rain, and even hail, that spoil the crops of the most hopeful men.” “But they will surely respect John’s crops,” said Edith, “especially after he has so complimented the weather. I am glad you are courageous enough to grow corn at all, for it will scarcely pay you to compete with the foreign wheat in the market. England will soon cease to be a corn-growing country.” “Never mind; let England grow men,” said Dallington, “and all the other lands grow corn for them to eat. You know the English-speaking race is destined to dominate the world.” “Say the worlds, while you are about it, John. You are a true Englishman in conceit of your country. I think the dominant race might be improved,” remarked Tom. “So do I; but we are getting on all the same. The real aristocracy—that of character—is realising its power a little, and before you are many years older, Tom, you will see a change.” “Yes? Then I promise that when it comes I will remember the words of the prophet John.” “You are winning golden opinions from your labourers,” said Edith. “You have followed father’s example, I hear, and given them pieces of ground for their own use. Now that so much of the land produces nothing but grass it will not mean as great a loss to you as gain to them. Old Benham said to me, ‘Lor’, miss, our young master be a brick, and no mistake;’ and, you know, to be called a brick is the highest praise any one can hope for.” “I suppose that is because I have told him he shall have as many bricks as he likes with which to build a wing to his house.”