She was much touched by Farrell’s constant kindness, and grateful for it; especially because it seemed to keep Bridget in a good temper.  She was grateful too for the visitors whom a hint from him would send on fine afternoons to call on the ladies at Rydal—­convalescent officers, to whom the drive from Carton, and tea with ‘the pretty Mrs. Sarratt’ were an attraction, while Nelly would hang breathless on their gossip of the war, until suddenly, perhaps, she would turn white and silent, lying back in her garden chair with the look which the men talking to her—­brave, kind-hearted fellows—­soon learnt to understand.  Marsworth came occasionally, and Nelly grew to like him sincerely, and to be vaguely sorry for him, she hardly knew why.  Cicely Farrell apparently forgot them entirely.  And in August and the first part of September she too, according to Captain Marsworth’s information, had been away, paying visits.

On the morning of September 26th, the Manchester papers which reached the cottage with the post contained columns of telegrams describing the British attack at Loos, and the French ‘push’ in Champagne.  Among the letters was a short word from Sarratt, dated the 24th.  ’We shall probably be in action to-morrow, dearest.  I will wire as soon as I can, but you must not be anxious if there is delay.  As far as I can judge it will be a big thing.  You may be sure I shall take all the precautions possible.  God bless you, darling.  Your letters are everything.’

Nelly read the letter and the newspaper, her hands trembling as she held it.  At breakfast, Bridget eyed her uncomfortably.

‘He’ll be all right!’ she said with harsh decision.  ‘Don’t fret.’

The day passed, with heavy heat mists over the Lake, the fells and the woods blotted out.  On pretence of sketching, Nelly spent the hours on the side of Loughrigg, trying sometimes to draw or sew, but for the most part, lying with shut eyes, hidden among the bracken.  Her faculty for dreaming awake—­for a kind of visualisation sharper than most people possess—­had been much developed since George’s departure.  It partly tormented, partly soothed her.

Night came without news.  ‘I can’t hear till to-morrow night,’ she thought, and lay still all night patient and sleepless, her little hands crossed on her breast.  The window was wide open and she could see the stars peering over Loughrigg.

Next morning, fresh columns in the newspaper.  The action was still going on.  She must wait.  And somehow it was easier to wait this second day; she felt more cheerful.  Was there some secret voice telling her that if he were dead, she would have heard?

After lunch she set out to take some of the Carton flowers to the farmer’s wife living in a fold of the fell, who had lost her only son in the July fighting.  Hester Martin had guided her there one day, and some fellow-feeling had established itself rapidly between Nelly, and the sad, dignified woman, whose duties went on as usual while all that gave them zest had departed.