By Derek's first Sunday at Grimstone he had explored every corner of the farm; had pushed his way through the densest undergrowth of the wood; knew when certain cows were expected to calve, and a mare to foal; and had even had a lesson in ploughing from Hugh McKay, which the others ceased working to observe with tolerant amusement.
He felt a sort of peace and repose on this warm, bright morning which, he liked to think, was the feeling experienced by labourers of the soil on peaceful Sunday moms. He stood with Newbigging smoking in silence while they both gazed across the lake. There was a land wind, warm, and sweet with the fragrance of blossoms and moist earth.
"On days when it blows like this," said Newbigging, at last, "ye can always see yon wide strip of pinkish red next the shore. It's awful bonny, I think, for it makes the other part green by contrast."
"The cliffs are red shale," said Derek, "and I expect it extends for some distance. As you say, it's—bonny."
"It makes a mon restive wi' the fairm work, sir. Though I do like it here, and I'll stick by ye through the summer and the apple-pickin'."
"Good. Can you tell me, Newbigging, what sort of trees these are? I don't know them. They're alive with black squirrels. There are white buds on the branches, too."
"These are elm-locusts with the coarse bark. See this bit of iron projecting. It's just a hint, sir, of a bridle hook
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