re was no crash, however
distant, along the sky. It was just the one soft impact with a
suggestion of earth-wide portentous force; and an interval followed; and
the blurred sound again. The dwellers in those parts, who had sons and
husbands at the war, made up no fancies to explain it. They listened
with a sinking of the heart; for what they heard was the roar of the
British guns at Ypres.

Into this country Martin Hillyard drove a small motor-car on a day of
October two years afterwards. Until this week he had not set foot in his
country of the soft grey skies since he had left Rackham Park. He had
hurried down to Rackham as soon as he had reported to his Chief, but not
with the high anticipation of old days. In what spirit would he find his
friends? How would Joan meet him? For sorrow had marked her cross upon
the door of that house as upon so many others in the land.

Martin had arrived before luncheon.

"Joan is hunting to-day," said Millie, "on the other side of the county.
She will catch a train back."

"I can fetch her," Hillyard returned. "She is well?"

"Yes. She was overworked and ordered a rest. She has been with us a
fortnight and is better. She was very grateful for your letters. She
sent you a telegram because she could not bear to write."

Martin had understood that. He had had little news of her during the two
years--a few lines about Harry in the crowded obituaries of the
newspapers after the attack in 1917 on the Messines Ridge, where he met
his death, and six months afterwards the announcement that a son was
born.

"Joan's distress was terrible," said Millie. "At first she refused to
believe that Harry was killed. He was reported as 'missing' for weeks;
and during those weeks Joan, with a confident face--whatever failings of
the heart beset her during the night vigils none ever knew--daily sought
for news of him at the Red Cross office at Devonshire House. There had
been the usual rumours. One officer in one prison camp had heard of
Harry Luttrell in another. A sergeant had seen him wounded, not
mortally. A bullet had struck him in the foot. Joan lived upon these
rumours. Finally proof came--proof irrefutable.

"Joan collapsed then," said Millie Splay. "We brought her down here and
put her to bed. She cried--oh, day and night!--she who never cried! We
were afraid for her--afraid for the child that was coming."

Millie Splay smiled wistfully. "She had just two weeks with Harry. They
were mar