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.”
“My lor’, it must be worth a brear bit o’ money then! More’n I can afford.”
“Is it going cheap, or do you think I’m made of gold pieces?”
“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.”
“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.
Tregors had gone whistling down the wind long since; the unknown hind from Burdock Water had let it go to rack and ruin, a second mortgagee was not forthcoming, Carveth Donnithorne foreclosed and marched in. Tregors had gone, but Bosula remained, clear of debt and as good a place as any in the Hundred, enough for any one man. Eli felt he could make his claim for even prosperous Simeon Penaluna’s daughter with a clear conscience. He came to the rim of the valley, hoisted himself to the top of a bank, paused and sat down.