The winter dedn' give no mighty promise,
nor yet the spring, till you comed. Then the Lard smiled 'pon Drift. Look
at the hay what's gwaine to be cut, God willin', next week. I never seed
nothin' more butivul thick underneath in all my days. A rare aftermath tu,
I'll warrant. 'Tis so all round. The wheat's kernin' somethin' cruel
fine--I awnly wish theer was more of it--an' the sheep an' cattle's in
braave kelter likewise. Then the orchard do promise no worse. I never seed
such a shaw of russets an' of quarantines 'pon they old trees afore."
"'Tis a fine, fair season."
"Why, so I say--a 'mazin' summer thus far--but what's the reason o't?
That's the poser as an answer comed to in the cart a drivin' home. You'm
the reason! You mind when good Saint Levan walked through the fields that
the grass grawed the greener for his tread, an' many days arter, when he'd
gone dead years an' years, the corn allus comed richest 'long the path what
he trod. An' 'tis the same here, 'cause God's eye be on you, Joan Tregenza,
an' His eye caan't be fixed 'pon no spot wi'out brightening all around. You
mind me, that's solemn truth. The Lard's watchin' over you--watchin' double
tides, as the sailors say--and so this bit o' airth's smilin' from the herb
o' the field to the biggest tree as graws. He'm watchin' over Drift for
your sake, my girl, an' the farm prospers along o' the gert goodness o' the
watchin' Lard.
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