had the normal human affection for their sons. They wished the war to
end. But, after all, there was something to be said for the war.
They--old Peter Halsey and old Joe Batts--were more considered and more
comfortable than they would have been before the war. And it was the
consideration more even than the comfort that warmed their hearts.

The evening grew hotter, and the way to the village seemed long. The old
men were now too tired to talk; till just as they came in sight of the
first houses, they perceived the village wagonette coming towards them.

"There she be! I did hear as Webb wor to meet her at the station. He's
took her over once before," said old Halsey, raising his eyes for a
moment and then dropping them again. Batts did the same. The glance was
momentary. But both men had the same impression of a pleasant-faced young
woman sitting erect behind Jonathan Webb, the decrepit driver of the
wagonette, and looking straight at them as they passed her. There was a
general effect of youth and bright colour; of pale brown hair, too,
over very dark eyes.

"Aye, she be quite nice-lookin'," said Batts, with unction, "rayther
uncommon. She minds me summat o' my missis when she wor a young 'un."
Halsey's mouth twitched a little, but though his thoughts were ironical,
he said nothing. It was generally admitted by the older people that Mrs.
Batts had been through many years the village beauty, but her fall from
that high place was now of such ancient date that it seemed foolish of
Batts to be so fond of referring to it.

The wagonette passed on. The woman sitting in it carefully took note of
the scene around her, in a mood of mingled hope and curiosity. She was to
live in this valley without a stream, under these high chalk downs with