“That dog,” said Timmy in a hoarse whisper, “frightened poor Mrs. Crofton very much the other day as she was coming out of church.”

For a moment Radmore thought the room was empty.  Then, in the dim lamp-light, a woman, who had been sitting by the fireplace, got up.

“Here’s Mr. Radmore come all the way from Australia, mother.”

“Mr. Radmore?” repeated the woman dully, and Radmore had another, and a very painful, shock.

He remembered Mrs. Cobbett definitely, as a buxom, merry-looking young woman.  She now looked older than her husband, and she did not smile at him, as the man had done, as she held out her worn, thin hand.

“A deal has happened,” she said slowly, “since you went away.”

“Yes,” said Radmore, “a deal has happened, Mrs. Cobbett; but Beechfield seems unchanged, I cannot see any difference at all.”

“Hearts are changed,” she said in a strange voice.

For the first time since he had been in Beechfield, Radmore felt a tremor of real discomfort run through him.

He looked up at the mantelpiece.  It was bare save for the photographs, in cheap frames, of two stolid-looking lads, whom he vaguely remembered.

“Those your boys?” he asked kindly, and then, making an effort of memory of which he felt harmlessly proud, he said:—­“Let me see, one was Peter and the other was Paul, eh?  I hope they’re all right, Mrs. Cobbett?”

“In a sense, sir,” she said apathetically.  “I do believe they are.  They was both killed within a month of one another—­first Paul, then Pete, as we called him—­so Mr. Cobbett and I be very lonely now.”

As Radmore and Timmy walked away from the post-office, Radmore said a trifle ruefully:—­“I wish, Timmy, you had told me about those poor people’s sons.  I’m afraid—­I suppose—­that a good many boys never came back to Beechfield.”

He now felt that everything was indeed changed in the lovely, peaceful little Surrey village.

“I expect,” said Timmy thoughtfully, “that the most sensible thing you could do”—­(he avoided calling Radmore by name, not knowing whether he was expected to address him as “godfather,” “Godfrey,” or “Major Radmore")—­“before we see anybody else, would be to take a look at the Shrine.  You have plenty of matches with you, haven’t you?”

“The Shrine?” repeated Radmore hesitatingly.

“Yes, you know?”

But somehow Radmore didn’t know.

They walked on in the now fast gathering darkness through a part of the village where the houses were rather spread out.  And suddenly, just opposite the now closed, silent schoolhouse and its big playground, Timmy stopped and pointed up to his right.  “There’s our Shrine,” he exclaimed.  “If you’ll give me the box of matches, I’ll strike some while you look at the names.”

Radmore stared up to where Timmy pointed, but, for a moment or two, he could see nothing.  Then, gradually, there emerged against the high hedge a curious-looking wooden panel protected by a slanting, neatly thatched eave, while below ran a little shelf on which there were three vases filled with fresh flowers.