She confided some of these ideas to Arthur Alce and a few neighbouring farmers.  One and all discouraged her, and she told herself angrily that the yeomen were jealous—­as for Alce, it was just his usual silliness.  She found that she had a more appreciative listener in Dick Socknersh.  He received all her plans with deep respect, and sometimes an admiring “Surelye, missus,” would come from his lips that parted more readily for food than for speech.  Joanna found that she enjoyed seeking him out in the barn, or turning off the road to where he stood leaning on his crook with his dog against his legs.

“You’d never believe the lot there is in sheep-keeping, Socknersh; and the wonders you can do if you have knowledge and information.  Now the folks around here, they’re middling sensible, but they ain’t what you’d call clever.  They’re stuck in their ways, as you might say.  Now if you open your mind properly, you can learn a lot of things out of books.  My poor father had some wonderful books upon his shelves, that are mine to read now, and you’d be surprised at the lot I’ve learned out of ’em, even though I’ve been sheep-raising all my life.”

“Surelye, missus.”

“Now I’ll tell you something about sheep-raising that has never been done here, all the hundreds of years there’s been sheep on the Marsh.  And that’s the proper crossing of sheep.  My book tells me that there’s been useful new breeds started that way and lots of money made.  Now, would you believe it, they’ve never tried crossing down here on the Marsh, except just once or twice with Southdowns?—­And that’s silly, seeing as the Southdown is a smaller sheep than ours, and I don’t see any sense in bringing down our fine big sheep that can stand all waters and weathers.  If I was to cross ’em, I’d sooner cross ’em with rams bigger than themselves.  I know they say that small joints of mutton are all the style nowadays, but I like a fine big animal—­besides, think of the fleeces.”

Socknersh apparently thought of them so profoundly that he was choked of utterance, but Joanna could tell that he was going to speak by the restless moving of his eyes under their strangely long dark lashes, and by the little husky sounds he made in his throat.  She stood watching him with a smile on her face.

“Well, Socknersh—­you were going to say ...”

“I wur going to say, missus, as my maeaster up at Garlinge Green, whur I wur afore I took to the Marsh at Botolph’s Bridge—­my maeaster, Mus’ Pebsham, had a valiant set of Spanish ship, as big as liddle cattle; you shud ought to have seen them.”

“Did he do any crossing with ’em?”

“No, missus—­leastways not whiles I wur up at the Green.”

Joanna stared through the thick red sunset to the horizon.  Marvellous plans were forming in her head—­part, they seemed, of the fiery shapes that the clouds had raised in the west beyond Rye hill.  Those clouds walked forth as flocks of sheep—­huge sheep under mountainous fleeces, the wonder of the Marsh and the glory of Ansdore....