They were entering a village. Before them was the triangular green
with the soldier's monument upon it. About it were the post-office,
the stores, the small neat houses of the place. A white church,
tall-steepled, green-shuttered, rose behind the monument, and with it
dominated the square. A wagon or two toiled lazily along the road;
before the stores a few dusty buggies were tied. The place seemed
drowsy to stagnation in the summer heat. Why, Millicent wondered, were
towns so crude and unlovely in the midst of a country so beautiful?

There was a sudden explosive sound, and, with a crunch and a jerk
which almost threw them from their seats, the machine came to a
standstill. Brockton and his chauffeur were out in an instant, the one
peering beneath, the other examining more closely. He emerged in a
moment, and there was a jargon of explanation, unintelligible to the
two women. All that Anna and Millicent understood was that the
accident was not serious; that they would be delayed only a few
minutes, and that Brockton was very angry with some one for the
mishap. The two men worked together. Anna looked at her cousin.

"I'm dead sleepy," she half whispered. "The wind in my face and the
sun are too soporific for me. Let us not say a word to each other."

"You read last night," Millicent accused her. "But I don't feel
particularly conversational myself."

She leaned back and surveyed the scene again. She could read the words
graved on the granite block beneath the bronze soldier:

"To the men of Warren who fought that their country might be whole and