hum of spinning wheels and the low, sweet singing of the dark spinners,
spinning wool for the winter clothing of the estate. From the next door
came the click and crash of the looms weaving the warm cloth.

"You make your own cloth?" the Westerner asked in surprise.

"Of course, for the servants. It takes six spinners and three weavers
working steadily all year to keep up with it, too."

"Isn't it expensive?"

"Maybe. We never thought of it. We just make it. Always have in our
family for a hundred years."

They passed the blacksmith's shop and saw him shoeing a blooded colt.
Phil touched the horse's nostrils with a gentle hand and the colt nudged
him.

"It's funny how a horse knows a horseman instinctively--isn't it, Phil?"

"Yes. He knows I'm going to join the cavalry."

They moved down the long row of whitewashed cottages, each with its yard
of flowers and each with a huge pile of wood in the rear--wood enough
to keep a sparkling fire through the winter. Chubby-faced babies were
playing in the sanded walks and smiling young mothers watched them from
the doors.

Phil started to put a question, stammered and was silent.