called you Durek. They said you was afraid of Mrs. Machin. Are you?"
"A little," he admitted. "Are you?"
"Not a bit. I ain't afraid of nobody—except Jammery . . . If any of them kids touches this hen o' mine I'll chop their heads off. Ain't she nice?"
The hen was settling herself on the nest with elaborate care. Every feather on end she drew the eggs under her body by convulsive movements of her encircling wings. With her beak she pressed the last one under her full, downy breast. She looked from side to side to make sure that none protruded, then, with a last shudder of sensuous delight, she half-closed her eyes, parted her beak, and settled down to her twenty-one days' vigil and retreat.
It was an extraordinarily fine season for fruit. The strawberries ran a luxuriant course, without burning heat to shrivel them or storms to beat them into the soil. Cherries were not successful everywhere, but the cherries at Grimstone hung in large, plump clusters that almost hid the foliage. The raspberries were the finest in years, and a good crop of pears and apples was promised. Not only was there an abundance of fruit but the stock was doing well. Six of the ewes had twins, there were seven little Jersey calves, and a likely-looking foal. In the heavy soil at the back of the farm there was a fine showing of oats, wheat, and plump roots. Derek had had the fences between Grimstone and Durras mended and intended in the autumn to paint some of the out-buildings and build new houses for the pigs and poultry separate from the other stock. He wrote enthusiastic letters to his brother, urging him to pay him a visit while the fruit was in its prime and the boating and bathing good.
He was eating his bacon and eggs one morning, his brain
