a great sense of space and
openness. The fresh pure air blew down from the hills, cooler and more
invigorating even than the sea breeze. Except for the sheep, and an
occasional collie dog and shepherd, they had the world to themselves.
Winifrede took long sighing breaths of air. Her eyes were shining with
enjoyment.

"I like the quiet of it all," she told Marjorie. "I can understand the
feeling that made the mediaeval hermits build their lonely little cells
in peaceful, beautiful spots. Some of the Hindoos do the same to-day,
and go and live in the forests to have time to meditate. When I'm
getting old I'd like to come and take a cottage on this moor--not
before, I think, because there's so very much I want to do in the world
first, but when I feel I'm growing past my work, then will be the time
to arrange my thoughts and slip into the spirit of the peace up here."

"What kind of work do you want to do?" asked Marjorie.

"I'm not sure yet. I'm leaving school, of course, at the end of this
term, and I can't quite decide whether to go on to College or to begin
something to help the war. Mrs. Morrison advises College. She says I
could be far more help afterwards if I were properly qualified, and I
dare say she's right, only I don't want to wait."

"I'm just yearning to leave school and be a V.A.D., or drive an
ambulance wagon," sympathized Marjorie.

"My sister is out in France at canteen work," confided Winifrede. "It
makes me fearfully envious when I have her letters and think what she's
doing for the Tommies. I've three brothers at the front, and five
cousins, and two more cousins were killed a year ago. My eldest brother
has been wounded twice, and the youngest is in hospital now. I simply
live for news of them all."

The girls had now reached the farm, a little low-built, whitewashed
house almost on the summit of a hill. Though the principal occupation of
its owner lay among sheep, he had a clearing of fields, where he grew
swedes, potatoes, and a little barley. In a sheltered place behind his
stable-yard he had a stock of last year's potatoes still left; they were
piled into a long heap, covered with straw and then with earth as a
protection. He took the girls round here, measured the potatoes in a
bushel bin, and then filled the baskets.

"They won't keep much longer," he informed Miss Norton. "I'd have carted
them down to Whitecliffe, only I've no horse now, and it's difficult to
borrow one; and I can't sp