She knew that her husband was counting upon the sale of these beasts--probably at 6 pounds a head--to enable him to fight the drought, by a speedy sinking of artesian bores.
She felt herself reasoning quite collectedly on this subject, until the roar of beasts turned into the roar of the mighty Atlantic, breaking against the cliffs below Castle Gaverick....

She saw the green waves--real as the heaving backs of the cattle--alive, leaping....

And she herself seemed tossed on their crest...

she saw and felt the cool embrace of the wave-fairies she had once tried to paint for Joan Gildea's book....

Oh! she had never fully appreciated the strength of that now inappeasable longing for the Celtic home, the Celtic traditions which had been born in her.