Her companion, Jenny Harberton, was a much more ordinary type, with broad cheeks, sandy hair, and a perpetual friendly grin, which generally served her instead of speech, at least in her employer’s presence.  She was a capital milker, and a good honest child.  Her people lived in the village, and her forebears had always lived there.  They were absolutely indigenous and autochthonous—­a far older Brookshire family than any of the dwellers in the big houses about.

Then in the midst of a loving report by Betty on the virtues and docility of a beautiful Jersey cow who was the pride of Miss Henderson’s new herd, Janet Leighton remembered one of her letters of the evening and drew it out of her pocket.

“Who do you think is going to be—­is already—­the commandant of the timber girls in the new camp?”

Rachel couldn’t guess.

“You remember Mrs. Fergusson—­at College?”

Rachel raised her eyebrows.

“The Irish lady?  Perfectly.”

“Well, it’s she.  She writes to me to say she is quite settled, with thirty girls, that the work is fascinating, and they all love it, and you and I must go over to see her.”

Rachel looked irresponsive.

“It’s a long way.”

“Oh, Miss,” said Jenny Harberton timidly, “it’s not so very far.  An’ it’s lovely when you get there.  Father was there last week, drivin’ some officers.  He says it is interestin’!”

Jenny’s father, a plumber in the village, owned a humble open car which was in perpetual request.

“There are a hundred Canadians apparently,” said Janet Leighton, looking at her letter, “and German prisoners, quite a good few, and these thirty girls.  Mrs. Fergusson begs us to come.  Sunday’s no good because we couldn’t see the work, but—­after the harvest?  We could get there with the pony quite well.”

Rachel said nothing.

Janet Leighton dropped the subject for the moment, but after supper, with her writing-desk on her knee, she returned to it.

“Can’t you go without me?” said Rachel, who was standing with her back to the room, looking out of the window.

“Well, I could,” said Janet, feeling rather puzzled, “but I thought you were curious to see these new kinds of work for women?”

“So I am.  It isn’t the women.”

“The German prisoners, then?” laughed Janet.

“Heavens, no!”

“The Canadians?” asked Janet—­in wonder—­after a moment.  Rachel turned abruptly towards her.

“Well, I didn’t have exactly a good time in Canada,” she said, as though the admission was dragged out of her; adding immediately, “but of course I’ll go—­sometime—­after the harvest.”

On which she left the room, and presently Janet saw her wandering among the stooks in the gloaming, her hands behind her back.  She seemed in her ripe and comely youth to be somehow the very spirit of the harvest.