“I don’t see why I shouldn’t have a bull myself.  I could advertise it for service all round the country, if it comes to that.”

John-James muttered something to the effect that he’d enough to do as it was, but Katie, one ear pressed against a cow, one pricked for the conversation, chimed in.

“There’s a Jersey bull to the geart farm to Grey Caunce, maister,” she told Ishmael, “and I’ve heard tell there’s nothen but Jerseys there, and the butter’s the best in the country and fetches most to market.  Many’s the time I’ve said I could make as good if I’d only got cream hangin’ in riches like them has got.”

“You must come up the Fair with me next time, John-James,” suggested Ishmael, “and then we’ll see.  Come and show me the calves now....”

The two went off to the cowsheds and for the next hour were examining livestock, from the calves down to the bees—­rather a rarity in those parts and the joy of John-James, who had the bee-gift, and was never stung, being able to move a swarm in his bare hands unscathed.  Afterwards they walked over part of the farmlands, and Ishmael’s heart began to beat high with pride and joy.  There is nothing more romantic than land—­its wilfulness, its possibilities, its endless intimacies.  Ishmael’s land was to prove an exacting mistress, unlike the rich, sleek home counties, which only have to be stroked to smile and yield.  On these granite heights the soil needed breaking every three years; if a field did very well it might be left four, but never longer.  The deep ploughing of the midlands was impossible—­the hard subsoil lay too close to the surface, and little wheat was sown as the shallow soil would not bear it, and what was sown never grew to be like the heavy eight-sided corn of softer counties.  Yet Ishmael loved his land already and was to love it more and more, its very hardness and fighting of him helping to make its charm.

Neither his early experiences of farm life nor his opportunities of more scientific study had been wasted on Ishmael, and he looked over pasture and arable now with an eye knowing enough, if not quite as much so as he tried to make it appear to John-James.  He found the land in good condition, the early-sown grain showing clear green blades and the grass rich enough, while even in the more neglected pastures towards the sea where the thistles had not been refused a foothold they had been kept cut down to prevent seeding.  John-James was conscientious, though handicapped by a rigid conservatism and lack of proper help.  For the emigration had been very heavy of late years from that part of the world, to the goldfields both of Australia and California.  Times were bad, though not as bad as in the North, where thousands of cotton operatives were literally starving owing to the stoppage of the cotton supplies through the American Civil War.  The papers were full for months, amid the greater excitement of Princess Alexandra’s wedding, of paragraphs headed “The Distress