“There’s lots you never heard of, Mrs. Tomkins,” said Mrs. Ploughman.

“And plenty I never hope to hear,” said Mrs. Tomkins promptly.  “My life!”

After breakfast, Anna helped her mother with the housework.  She took a hand in making the beds, and put her own room in order by tumbling everything into the closet and shutting the door.  Then she went into the kitchen to help with the lunch.  When Mrs. Barly saw her dreaming over the carrots, she asked: 

“What are you gaping at now?”

“Nothing.”

Then Mrs. Barly grew vexed.  “You’re not feeble-minded, I hope,” she said.

“No, I’m not,” said Anna.

“I’m glad of that,” said Mrs. Barly.

When Anna said that she was not thinking of anything, she believed that she was telling the truth.  But as a matter of fact, she was thinking of Thomas Frye.  She wanted him to be in love with her, although she said to herself:  “I am not in love with any one.”  Sometimes she thought that her heart was buried in France, with Noel Ploughman.  However, she was mistaken.  The tear she dropped in secret over his death, was for her own youth, out of her timid, clumsy, sweet-and-sour feelings.

In the afternoon she went for a walk.  The rain, starting again after breakfast, had stopped, but the sky was still overcast, the air damp and searching.  From the trees overhead as she passed, icy drops rained down upon her; she felt the silence all about her, and saw, from the rises, the gray hills, the rolling mist, and the low clouds, trailing above the woods, now light, now dark.

She was disappointed because life was no different than it was.  She had hoped to find it as delightful as in those happy days before the war, when she played at kissing games and twined dandelion wreaths in her hair.  But now it did not amuse her to play at post-office; she was sad because she was no longer able to be gay.  As she passed the little cottage belonging to Mrs. Wicket, she thought to herself:  “Yes, you’ve seen something of life.  But not what I want to see, exactly.  Look at you.”  Like Mrs. Grumble, she believed that Mrs. Wicket had nothing more to live for.  “There you are,” she said, “and there you’ll be.  Life doesn’t mean even as much as a hayride, so far as you’re concerned.

“You, God,” she cried, “put something in my way, just once.”

At that moment Juliet, who had been peeking out from behind the house, came skipping down the path to the road.  As she drew near, her progress became slower; finally she stood still, and balanced herself on one leg, like a stork.

“Hello,” she said.  Then she looked up and down the road, to see what there was to talk about.

“I have a little house Mr. Jeminy made me out of boxes,” she said at last.

“No,” said Anna.

“Well, that’s a fact,” said Juliet, who had once heard Mr. Frye say, “Well, that’s a fact,” to Mr. Crabbe.