e
figure of Elizabeth Bremerton--coming, no doubt, to get picturesque
details on the spot for the letter she had promised to write to a
certain artillery officer. A quick flame of jealousy ran through
the girl's mind.

Miss Bremerton quickened her step.

'So they're open!' she said eagerly, as she and Pamela met. 'And
there's nothing broken, or--or lying about!'

She looked in bewilderment at the unlittered road and swinging gate.

'They were open, Perley says, first thing this morning. He came by
about seven.'

'Before the plough arrived?'

'Yes.'

They stood still, trying to puzzle it out. Then a sudden laugh
crossed Elizabeth's face.

'Perhaps there were no barricades! Perhaps your father was taking us
all in!'

'Not at all,' said Pamela drily. 'Perley saw the gates firmly barred
with hurdles and barbed wire, and all tied up with rope, when he and
his wife left the Lodge late last night.'

Elizabeth suddenly coloured brightly. Why, Pamela could not imagine.
Her fair skin made it impossible for a flush to pass unnoticed. But
why should she flush?

Elizabeth walked on rapidly, her eyes on the ground. When she raised
them it was to look rather steadily at her companion.

'I think perhaps I had better tell you at once--I am very
sorry!--but I shall be leaving you in a month. I told your father so
last night.'

Pamela looked the astonishment she felt. For the moment she was
tongue-tied. Was she glad or sorry? She did not know. But the
instinct of good manners came to her aid.

'Can't you stand us?' she said bluntly. 'I expect you can't.'

Elizabeth laughed uncomfortably.

'Why, you've all been so kind to me. But I think perhaps'--she
paused, trying to find her words--'I didn't quite understand--when I
came--how much I still wanted to be doing things for the war--'

'Why, you might do heaps of things!' cried Pamela. 'You have been
doing them. Taking an interest in the farms, I mean--and all that.'

'Well, but--' Elizabeth's brow puckered.

Then she broke into a frank laugh--'After all, that wasn't what I
was engaged for, was it?'

'No--but you seemed to like to do it. And it's war-work,' said
Pamela, inexorably.

Elizabeth was dismally conscious of her own apparent
inconsistencies. It seemed best to be frank.

'The fact is--I think I'd better tell you--I tried yesterday to get
your father to give up his plans about the gates. And when he
wouldn't, and it seemed likely that there might be leg