get her to eat anything. Mrs. Weston's been
after her with lots of things--tasty you know, Miss--to try and tempt
her. But she wouldn't hardly look at them.'

'Thank you, Milly'--said Miss Martin, after a pause. 'Well, I'll find
her. Is Miss Cookson here?'

Milly's candid countenance changed at once. She frowned--it might have
been said she scowled.

'She came the day Mr. Sarratt went away, Miss. Well of course it's not
my place to speak, Miss--but _she_ don't do Mrs. Sarratt no good!' Miss
Martin couldn't help a smile--but she shook her head reprovingly all the
same, as she hastened away. Milly had been in her Sunday-school class,
and they were excellent friends.

Across the Rotha, she pursued a little footpath leading to the lakeside.
It was a cold day, with flying clouds and gleams on hill and water. The
bosom of Silver How held depths of purple shadow, but there were lights
like elves at play, chasing each other along the Easedale fells, and the
stony side of Nab Scar.

Beside the water, on a rock, sat Nelly Sarratt. An open telegram and a
bundle of letters lay on her lap, her hands loosely folded over them.
She was staring at the water and the hills, with absent eyes, and her
small face wore an expression--relaxed and sweet--like that of a
comforted child, which touched Miss Martin profoundly.

'So you've heard?--you poor thing!' said the elder woman smiling, as she
laid a friendly hand on the girl's shoulder.

Nelly looked up--and drew a long deep breath.

'He's all right, and the battalion's going to have three weeks'
rest--behind the lines.'

Her dark eyes shone. Hester Martin sat down on the turf beside her.

'Capital! When did you hear last?'

'Just the day before the "push." Of course he couldn't tell me
anything--but somehow I knew. And then the papers since--they're pretty
ghastly,' said Nelly, with a faint laugh and a shiver. 'The farm under
the hill there'--she pointed--'you know about them?'

'Yes. I saw them after the telegram,' said Miss Martin, sadly. 'Of
course it was the only son. These small families are too awful. Every
married woman ought to have six sons!'

Nelly dropped her face out of sight, shading it with her hands.
Presently she said, in a dreamy voice of content--

'I shall get a letter to-morrow.'

'How do you know?'

Nelly held out the telegram, which said--

'All safe. Posted letter last night. Love.'

'It _can't_ take more than forty-eight hours to come--can it?