he, groaning,—­nobbut a bit of colic, Mrs. Sarratt, that anybody might have!—­and there I sat—­thinking of our lads in the trenches—­thinking of my boy—­that never grumbled at anything—­and would ha’ been just ashamed to make such a fuss for such a little.  And this afternoon the brother’s taken him away to be molly-coddled at home.  And, of course, they’ve left us, just when they might ha’ been o’ soom real service.  There’s three fields still liggin oot in t’ wet—­and nobody to lend a hand wi’ them.  But I doan’t want them back!  I doan’t hold wi’ foak like that.  I doan’t want to see a mon like that settin’ where my boy used to set, when he came home.  It goes agin me.  I can’t soomhow put up wi’ it.’

And as she sat there opposite Nelly, her gnarled and work-stained hands resting on her knees, the tears suddenly ran over her cheeks.  But she quickly apologised for herself.  ’The truth is I am run doon, Mrs. Sarratt.  I’ve done nothing but cook and cook—­since these young men coom along.  They wouldn’t eat noa flesh—­soa I must always be cookin’ summat—­vegetables—­or fish—­or sweet things.  I’m fair tired oot!’

Nelly exclaimed indignantly.

‘Was it their religion made them behave like that?’

‘Religion!’ Mrs. Grayson laughed.  ’Well, they was only the yan Sunday here—­but they took no account o’t, whativer.  They went motorin’ all day; an niver set foot in church or chapel.  They belong to soom Society or other—­I couldna tell what.  But we’ll not talk o’ them ony more, Mrs. Sarratt, if yo please.  I’m just thankful they’re gone ...  An have ye heard this day of Mr. Sarratt?’

The gentle ageing face bent forward tenderly.  Nelly lifted her own dark-rimmed eyes to it Her mouth quivered.

’No, not yet, Mrs. Grayson.  But I shall soon.  You’ll have seen about this fighting in the newspapers?  There’s been a great battle—­I think he’ll have been in it.  I shall hear to-night.  I shall be sure to hear to-night.’

‘The Lord protect him!’ said Mrs. Grayson softly.  They both sat silent, looking into the fire.  Through the open door, the hens could be heard pecking and clucking in the yard, and the rushing of a beck swollen by the rain, on the fell-side.  Presently the farmer’s wife looked up—­

‘It’s devil’s work, is war!’ she said, her eyes blazing.  Nelly held out her hand and Mrs. Grayson put hers into it.  The two women looked at each other,—­the one who had lost, and the other who feared to lose.

‘Yes, it’s awful,’ said Nelly, in a low voice.  ’They want us to be brave—­but—­’

Mrs. Grayson shook her head again.

‘We can do it when they’re settin’ there—­afore us,’ she said, ’but not when we’re by our lone.’

Nelly nodded.

‘It’s the nights that are worst—­’ she murmured, under her breath—­’because it’s then they’re fighting—­when we’re in bed—­sleeping.’

’My boy was killed between one and two in the morning ’—­whispered Mrs. Grayson.  ’I heard from one of his friends this morning.  He says it was a lovely night, and the daylight just comin’ up.  I think of it when I’m layin’ awake and hearing the birds beginning.’