and sheep-bells."

"'Gull's flight and sheep-bells'! You're a poet, my dear!"

Jon sighed.

"Oh, Golly! No go!"

"Try! I used to at your age."

"Did you? Mother says 'try' too; but I'm so rotten. Have you any of
yours for me to see?"

"My dear," Holly murmured, "I've been married nineteen years. I only
wrote verses when I wanted to be."

"Oh!" said Jon, and turned over on his face: the one cheek she could see
was a charming colour. Was Jon "touched in the wind," then, as Val would
have called it? Already? But, if so, all the better, he would take no
notice of young Fleur. Besides, on Monday he would begin his farming.
And she smiled. Was it Burns who followed the plough, or only Piers
Plowman? Nearly every young man and most young women seemed to be poets
now, judging from the number of their books she had read out in South
Africa, importing them from Hatchus and Bumphards; and quite good--oh!
quite; much better than she had been herself! But then poetry had only
really come in since her day--with motor-cars. Another long talk after
dinner over a wood fire in the low hall, and there seemed little left to
know about Jon except anything of real importance. Holly parted from him
at his bedroom door, having seen twice over that he had everything, with
the conviction that she would love him, and Val would like him. He