e trouble, and
she was one of those women who tremble before a spiritual pastor and
master. Therefore she comforted herself by the reflection that at least
Cloom would always be her home, and a home of which she meant to be
mistress as long as possible. Under his father's will Ishmael came into
the property at eighteen, an additional grievance to Annie, but she told
herself that at least a boy of that age would not be able to turn her
out--he would still be too afraid both of her and of public opinion. The
hardness and the moral elasticity that go to make up a certain phase of
the Cornish character, made up Annie's, and grew to sway her utterly,
save for gusts of ungovernable emotions and an equally ungovernable
temper. The little Ishmael learned to fear, to evade, and to lie, till
he bade fair to become an infant Machiavelli, and at night his sins--the
tremendous sins of childhood--would weigh upon him so that he broke into
a sweat of terror.

On this August morning he had forgotten his crimes and was burning with
the high adventures of a farmyard. In the blue of the sky fat gold-white
clouds bellied like the sails of enchanted galleons, and the wind
ruffled the cock's bronzed feathers about his scaly legs, blew pearly
partings on the black-furred cat that sunned herself by the wall, and
whirled two gleaming straws, Orthon-wise, about the cobbles. The
triumphant cackling of a hen proclaimed an egg to be as much a miracle
as the other daily one of dawn, and the shrill-voiced crickets kept up a
monotonous and hurried orchestra. A big red cow came across the field
and stood in a line with the gate, her head, with its calm eyes and
gently moving wet nostrils, turned towards Ishmael. She was against the
sun, and at the edges of her the fine outer hairs, gleaming transparent,
made her seem outlined in flame--she was a glorified, a transfigured
cow, a cow for the gods. In a newly-turned field beyond a man and a boy
were planting young broccoli; they worked with the swiftness and
smoothness of a machine, the man making a succession of holes with his
spud as he walked along, the boy dropping in the plants on the instant.
From where Ishmael sat the boy and his basket were hidden behind the
man, and it looked as though wherever that shining spud touched the
earth a green thing sprang up as by magic. Truly, Cloom was a farm in
the grand manner this morning, a farm fit for the slopes of Olympus.
Ishmael flogged his gate and bounced