“Smells good in here, March,” she said to the tall, lanky man who was laying down fresh sawdust. She stopped to rub a greige cow’s forehead. March must be fifty now she was thinking, but he looks like a boy. And he had kept the shyness of a boy, and went on working now out of shyness. But after she had looked over the herd and they had talked of the weather, when she came to the point, March stopped for a moment, took off his cap, and scratched his head.

“Don’t see why not. We could get off on Thursday. I have some wood to bring in down at Nobels’. Promised to cut and stack it. We’d come after that, by noon, Hannie and me.”

What a comfort the Lovelands were! Yet such a different breed from Ellen, although they must be distant cousins. Mary’s name had been Lockhart before her marriage. These Lovelands had no wish to leave the village. They were truly rooted here, prizing every tree and bush and every animal they owned, as if they owned great treasure. They did not suffer from hungers and aspirations for something else. Why not? Christina wondered as she drove quietly homewards, waving to one of the in-laws, a stout young woman hanging out a wash. Maybe it was that these people were nourished in a rather rare way by each other. The family was everything here, and the atmosphere of love, of respect, was tangible in the air. It had shown in the way Mary herself would not speak for her son. Work was done on a co-operative basis, but each one had his own special tasks and responsibilities. And, of course, they were held together by the magnificent courage and faith that shone out from Mary’s every glance. They were rich in themselves.

Full of all this good news, wanting to tell Cornelius all about the visit, Christina drove back home elated. Cornelius was asleep and looked at her with a troubled look when he found her there and realized he hadn’t heard her come in.

“I suppose they can do it,” he grumbled. “But Old Pete knows where everything is.”

“We’re lucky to get them. They’ll do it in half the time—never saw such workers!”

“Have it your way.”

And Christina disappeared into the kitchen to forage for lunch. It was wiser not to make an issue of the Love-lands. She knew that Cornelius’s father had been furious with them for keeping on an old horse out of sheer sentiment. Perhaps Cornelius was remembering that. He talked about his father a lot these days, as if he were seeking some sort of inward security from the idea of that grand but limited man.

“What if I invited Susie Plummer up here for tea?” Christina asked when she came back with the trays.

“Why ever ask that woman?” Cornelius grumbled.