He sat in the kitchen that afternoon twirling his hat in his powerful hands, staring out of the window and thinking that his worries were pretty nearly over. There was always Teresa to reckon with, but they were out of debt and Bosula was in good farming shape at last. What next? An idea was taking shape in his deliberate brain. He stared out of the window, but not at the farm boar wallowing blissfully in the mire of the lane, or at Simeon driving his sleek cows in for milking, or at the blue Channel beyond with a little collier brig bearing up for the Lizard, her grimy canvas transformed by the alchemy of sunshine. Eli Penhale was seeing visions, homely, comfortable visions. Mary came in, rolling her sleeves back over firm, rounded forearms dimpled at the elbows. The once leggy girl was leggy no longer, but a ripe, upstanding, full-breasted woman with kindly brown eyes and an understanding smile. “I’ll give ’e a penny for thy dream, Eli—if ’tis a pretty one,” she laughed. “Is it?” The farmer grinned. “Prettiest I ever had.” “Queen of England take you for her boy?” “Prettier than that.” “My lor’, it must be worth a brear bit o’ money then! More’n I can afford.” “I don’t think so.” “Is it going cheap, or do you think I’m made of gold pieces?” “It’s not money I want.” “You’re not like most of us then,” said Mary, and started. “There’s father calling in the yard. Must be goin’ milkin’. Sit ’e down where ’e be and I’ll be back quick as quick and we’ll see if I can pay the price, whatever it is. Sit ’e down and rest.” But Eli had risen. “Must be going, I believe.” “Why?” “Got to see to the horses; I’ve let Bohenna and Davy off for the day, ’count of wrastling.” Mary pouted, but she was a farmer’s daughter, a fellow bond slave of animals; she recognized the necessity. “Anybody’d think it was your men had been wrastlin’ and not you, you great soft-heart. Oh, well, run along with ’e and come back when done and take a bite of supper with us, will ’e? Father’d be proud and I’ve fit a lovely supper.” Eli promised and betook himself homewards. Five strenuous bouts on top of six hours’ work in the morning had tired him somewhat, bruises were stiffening and his left shoulder gave him pain, but his heart, his heart was singing “Mary Penaluna—Mary Penhale, Mary Penaluna—Mary Penhale” all the way and his feet went wing-shod. Almost he had asked her in the kitchen, almost, almost—it had been tripping off his tongue when she mentioned her cows and in so doing reminded him of his horses. By blood, instinct and habit he was a farmer; the horses must be seen to first, his helpless, faithful servitors. His mother usually turned her mount into the stable without troubling to feed, unsaddle it or even ease the girths. The horses must be seen to. He would say the word that evening after supper when old Simeon fell asleep in his rocker, as was his invariable custom. That very evening.