gossips that Mrs. Wicket's life was, by rights, no longer her own to do
with. She was the earthly remains of a sinner; she had no right to
enjoy herself.

Two days later Noel Ploughman enlisted, "for the duration of the war."
His grandmother accepted the congratulations of Mrs. Crabbe and the
sympathy of Mrs. Barly with equal satisfaction. It seemed to her that
she had done her duty as she saw it. But when Noel was killed in
France a year later, she felt that Mrs. Wicket had killed him. "Now,"
she croaked to Mrs. Crabbe, "I hope she's satisfied."

She seemed to be; she took the news of Noel's death with curious calm.
It was almost as if she had been expecting it, looking for it . . . one
might have thought she had been waiting for it. . . . After a while,
she began to sing again. Her voice, as she crooned to Juliet, was
musical, but quavery. It provoked the good women of the village, who
began to think that perhaps, after all, she had "had her way."
"There's this much about it," said Miss Beal; "no one else will have
him now."

Mrs. Grumble agreed with her. She disliked Mrs. Wicket because Mr.
Jeminy liked her. He pitied the young woman who had had the misfortune
to marry a thief, and he forgave her for wanting to be happy, because
it did not seem to him that to have been the wife of a good-for-nothing
was much to settle down on. In his opinion, life owed her more than
she had got.

"She is simple and kind," he said to Mrs. Grumble. "She has had very
little to give thanks for."