After showing Ellesborough the way to the “clamps,” Hastings left him.  In succession to the long days of rain there had been a sudden clearing in the skies.  The day had been fine, and now, towards sunset, there was a grand massing of rosy cloud along the edge of the down, and windy lights over the valley.  Rachel, busy with the covering of the potato “clamps,” laid down the bundle of bracken she had been handing to Peter Betts, and came quickly to meet her visitor.  Her working dress was splashed with mire from neck to foot, and coils of brown hair had escaped from her waterproof cap, and hung about her brilliant cheeks.  She looked happy, but tired.

“Such a day!” she said, panting, as they met.  “The girls and I began at six this morning—­lifting and sorting.  It was so important to get them in.  Now they’re safe if the frost does come.  It’s a jolly crop!”

Ellesborough looked at her, and her eyes wavered before the ardour in his.

“I say!  You work too hard!  Haven’t you done enough?  Come and rest.”

She nodded.  “I’ll come!”

She ran to say a word to the others and rejoined him.

They went back to the farm, not talking much, but conscious through every nerve of the other’s nearness.  Rachel ran upstairs to change her dress, and Ellesborough put the fire together, and shut the windows.  For the sun had sunk behind the hill, and a bitter wind was rising.  When Rachel came down again, the wood-fire glowed and crackled, the curtains drawn, and she stared in astonishment at a small tea-tray beside the fire.

Ellesborough hurriedly apologized.

“I found some boiling water in the kettle, and I know by now where Miss Janet keeps her tea.”

“Janet brought us tea to the field.”

“I dare say she did.  That was four—­this is six.  You felt cold just now.  You looked cold.  Be good, and take it easy!” He pointed to the only comfortable chair, which he had drawn up to the fire.

“Are you sure it boiled?” she said sceptically, as she sank into her chair, her eyes dancing.  “No man knows when a kettle boils.”

“Try it!  For five winters on the Saguenay, I made my own tea—­and baked my own bread.  Men are better cooks than women when they give their minds to it!” He brought her the cup, hot and fragrant, and she sipped it in pure content while he stood smiling above her, leaning against the mantelpiece.

“I wanted to see you,” he said presently.  “I’ve just got my marching orders.  Let’s see.  This is October.  I shall have just a month.  They’ve found another man to take over this job, but he can’t come till November.”

“And—­peace?” said Rachel, looking up.

For Prince Max of Baden had just made his famous peace offer of October 5th, and even in rural Brookshire there was a thrilling sense of opening skies, of some loosening of those iron bonds in which the world had lain for four years.