it was, and it seemed to give a strange new stability and even dignity to life.  Their sons were fighting; and they had the normal human affection for their sons.  They wished the war to end.  But, after all, there was something to be said for the war.  They—­old Peter Halsey and old Joe Batts—­were more considered and more comfortable than they would have been before the war.  And it was the consideration more even than the comfort that warmed their hearts.

The evening grew hotter, and the way to the village seemed long.  The old men were now too tired to talk; till just as they came in sight of the first houses, they perceived the village wagonette coming towards them.

“There she be!  I did hear as Webb wor to meet her at the station.  He’s took her over once before,” said old Halsey, raising his eyes for a moment and then dropping them again.  Batts did the same.  The glance was momentary.  But both men had the same impression of a pleasant-faced young woman sitting erect behind Jonathan Webb, the decrepit driver of the wagonette, and looking straight at them as they passed her.  There was a general effect of youth and bright colour; of pale brown hair, too, over very dark eyes.

“Aye, she be quite nice-lookin’,” said Batts, with unction, “rayther uncommon.  She minds me summat o’ my missis when she wor a young ’un.”  Halsey’s mouth twitched a little, but though his thoughts were ironical, he said nothing.  It was generally admitted by the older people that Mrs. Batts had been through many years the village beauty, but her fall from that high place was now of such ancient date that it seemed foolish of Batts to be so fond of referring to it.

The wagonette passed on.  The woman sitting in it carefully took note of the scene around her, in a mood of mingled hope and curiosity.  She was to live in this valley without a stream, under these high chalk downs with their hanging woods, and within a mile or so of the straggling village she had just driven through.  At last, after much wandering, she was to find a home—­a real home of her own.  The word “home” had not meant much—­or much at least that was agreeable—­to her, till now.  Her large but handsome mouth took a bitter fold as she thought over various past events.

Now they had left the village behind, and were passing through fields that were soon to be her fields.  Her keen eyes appraised the crops standing in them.  She had paid the family of her predecessor a good price for them, but they were worth it.  And just ahead, on her left, was a wide stretch of newly-ploughed land rising towards a bluff of grassy down-land on the horizon.  The ploughed land itself had been down up to a few months before this date; thin pasture for a few sheep, through many generations.  She thought with eagerness of the crops she was going to make it bear, in the coming year.  Wheat, or course.  The wheat crops all round the village were really magnificent.  This was going to be the resurrection year for English farming, after fifty years of “death and damnation”—­comparatively.  And there would be many good years to come after.