Sarratt politely assured her that they would look out for her companion.  He had never yet seen a grey-haired Englishwoman, of that age, carry so heavy a load, and he liked both her pluck and her voice.  She reminded him of the French peasant women in whose farms he often lodged behind the lines.  She meanwhile was scrutinising him—­the badge on his cap, and the two buttons on his khaki sleeve.

‘I think I know who you are,’ she said, with a sudden smile.  ’Aren’t you Mr. and Mrs. Sarratt?  Sir William Farrell told me about you.’  Then she turned to the boy—­’Go on, Jim.  I’ll come soon.’

A conversation followed on the mountain path, in which their new acquaintance gave her name as Miss Hester Martin, living in a cottage on the outskirts of Ambleside, a cousin and old friend of Sir William Farrell; an old friend indeed, it seemed, of all the local residents; absorbed in war-work of different kinds, and somewhere near sixty years of age; but evidently neither too old nor too busy to have lost the natural interest of a kindly spinster in a bride and bridegroom, especially when the bridegroom was in khaki, and under orders for the front.  She promised, at once, to come and see Mrs. Sarratt, and George, beholding in her a possible motherly friend for Nelly when he should be far away, insisted that she should fix a day for her call before his departure.  Nelly added her smiles to his.  Then, with a pleasant nod, Miss Martin left them, refusing all their offers to help her with her load. ‘"My strength is as the strength of ten,"’ she said with a flash of fun in her eyes—­’But I won’t go on with the quotation.  Good-bye.’

George and Nelly went on towards a spot above a wood in front of them to which she had directed them, as a good point to rest and lunch.  She, meanwhile, pursued her way towards Ambleside, her thoughts much more occupied with the young couple than with her lost companion.  The little thing was a beauty, certainly.  Easy to see what had attracted William Farrell!  An uncommon type—­and a very artistic type; none of your milk-maids.  She supposed before long William would be proposing to draw her—­hm!—­with the husband away?  It was to be hoped some watch-dog would be left.  William was a good fellow—­no real malice in him—­had never meant to injure anybody, that she knew of—­but—­

Miss Martin’s cogitations however went no farther in exploring that ‘but.’  She was really very fond of her cousin William, who bore an amount of discipline from her that no one else dared to apply to the owner of Carton.  Tragic, that he couldn’t fight!  That would have brought out all there was in him.

CHAPTER IV

‘Glorious!’