James gave in to him that the
old red horse was hard to drive, but James could drive him better
than Peter could lead him; and Peter marvelled at the skill with
which James raised his hand from the shaft of the plough and
struck the horse with the rein whilst he kept the plough steady
with the other hand.
"Now, Peter, you must try again."
At the end of the headland where the plough turned, Peter always
wanted to stop and talk about something; but James said they would
have to get on with the work, and Peter walked after the plough,
straining after it for three hours, and then he said: "James, let
me drive the horse. I can do no more."
"You won't feel it so much when you are accustomed to it," said
James.
Anything seemed to him better than a day's ploughing: even getting
up at three in the morning to go to a fair.
He went to bed early, as he used to, and they talked of him over
the fire, as they used to. But however much they talked, they
never seemed to find what they were seeking--his vocation--until
one evening an idea suddenly rose out of their talk.
"A good wife is the only thing for Peter," said Pat.
And they went on thinking.
"A husband would be better for her," said Pat Phelan, "than a
convent."
"I cannot say I agree with you there. Think of all the good them
nuns are doing."
"She isn't a nun yet," said Pat Phelan.
And the men smoked on a while, and they ruminated as they smoked.
"It would be better, James, that Peter got her than that she
should stay in a convent.
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