Her husband's grave in the churchyard we could see from the window while we sat at tea--an unusually sumptuous tea for a farmhouse--and it was evident that she was more alive to the memories of half a century ago in the "old country," than to the plans of her ambitious son in the new colony.
The son came to tea too, but a little late, having obviously brushed himself up a bit for his visitor from England. He was about forty years of age, tall, well-built, keen-faced, with steel-blue eyes and a hatchet nose, and his body was just that combination of leanness, strength and nervous alertness which made one think of a wolf. He was extremely polite, not to say flattering, to me. I thought him delightful, his idyllic farm still more delightful; he was so eager, vigorous and hardy, a typical pioneer, slaving from dawn to sunset to win a living from the soil in order to support the family. I trusted him, admired him immensely. Having been duly prepared for the picture on our walk out, I was not disappointed. He spoke very frankly of the desperate work he and his sister were forced to do; also of what he might do, and what could be made of the farm, if only he had a little capital. I liked him; he liked me; the clerk liked us both.
He showed me round the farm after tea, and his few Jersey cows came up and nosed his hand. The elderly sister, a weaker repetition of himself, joined us. She, too, slaved from morning till night. The old mother, diminutive, quiet, brave, devoted to her children yet with her heart in the old country she would never see again, completed a charming picture in my mind. I was invited to come again.
Another picture, still more alluring, was set before me during the walk back, the picture of what a "little capital" could do with that tiny farm. The dairy business that could be worked up made me feel a rich man before the Toronto spires became visible. The desire to put capital into the Islington Jersey Dairy
became the one hope of my life. Would Cooper agree?
