The wall-flowers were long plucked or dead, the last snows of
apple-blossom had vanished away, and the fruit was setting well. The
woodlice were already ruining the young nectarines. "They spiles 'em in
the growth an' scores 'em wi' their wicked lil teeth, then, come August
an' they ripens, they'll begin again. But the peaches they won't touch
now, 'cause of the fur 'pon 'em. Awnly they'll make up for't when the
things is ready for eatin'." So Uncle Thomas explained the position to
Joan. He, good man, had fulfilled his promise to see Michael Tregenza.
It happened that a load of oar-weed was wanted on the farm, and Mr.
Chirgwin, instead of sending one of the hands with horse and cart to
Newlyn according to his custom when seaweed was needed, went himself.
His elder niece expostulated with him and explained that such a trip
would be interpreted to mean straitened circumstances on the farm; but
her uncle was not proud, and when he explained that his real object was
an opportunity to speak with Joan's father Mary said no more.
Screwing courage to the sticking-point, therefore, the old man went down to
Newlyn on a morning when Joan was not by to question his movements. Fortune
favored him. Michael had landed at daylight and was not sailing again till
dusk. The fisherman listened patiently, but Mr. Chirgwin's inconsequent and
sentimental conversation sounded as tinkling brass upon his ear.
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