I am writing this on the fourth day of August, which is a day when memory grows bitter and reflective if we are not careful.  The August sunshine lies rich and yellow on the fields, and almost perceptibly the pale green of the wheat is absorbing the golden hue of the air.  The painted cup has faded from rosy pink to a dull, ashy color, and the few wild roses which are still to be seen in the shaded places have paled to a pastel shade.  The purple and yellow of goldenrod, wild sage, gallardia, and coxcomb are to be seen everywhere—­the strong, bold colors of the harvest.

Everything spoke of peace to-day as we drove through the country.  The air had the indescribably sweet smell of ripening grain, clover-blooms, and new hay; for the high stands of wild hay around the ponds and lakes are all being cut this year, and even the timothy along the roads, and there was a mellow undertone of mowing machines everywhere, like the distant hum of a city.  Fat cattle stood knee-deep in a stream as we passed, and others lay contentedly on the clover-covered banks.  One restless spirit, with a poke on her neck, sniffed at us as we went by, and tossed her head in grim defiance of public opinion and man-made laws.  She had been given a bad name—­and was going to live up to it!

Going over a hill, we came upon a woman driving a mower.  It was the first reminder of the war.  She was a fine-looking woman, with a tanned face, brown, but handsome, and she swung her team around the edge of the meadow with a grace and skill that called forth our admiration.

I went over and spoke to her, for I recognized her as a woman whom I had met at the Farm-Woman’s Convention last winter.  After we had exchanged greetings, and she had made her kind inquiry, “What news do you get from the Front?” and had heard that my news had been good—­she said abruptly:—­

“Did you know I’ve lost my husband?”

I expressed my sorrow.

“Yes,” she said, “it was a smashing blow—­never believed Alex could be killed:  he was so big, and strong, and could do anything....  Ever since I can remember, I thought Alex was the most wonderful of all people on earth ... and at first ... when the news came, it seemed I could not go on living ... but I am all right now, and have thought things out....  This isn’t the only plane of existence ... there are others; this is merely one phase of life....  I am taking a longer view of things now....  You see that schoolhouse over there,”—­she pointed with her whip to a green-and-white school farther down the road,—­“Alex and I went to school there....  We began the same day and left the same day.  His family and mine settled in this neighborhood twenty years ago—­we are all Kincardine people—­Bruce, you know.  Our road to school lay together on the last mile ... and we had a way of telling whether the other one had passed.  We had a red willow stick which we drove into the ground.  Then, when I came along