hem. Farrell went to the
sitting-room door to meet her, and it seemed both to him and Hester that
in spite of her emaciation and her pallor, she brought the spring in
with her. She had a bunch of willow catkins and primroses in her hand,
and her face, for all its hollow cheeks and temples, shewed just a
sparkle of returning health.

It was clear that she was pleased to see Farrell. But her manner of
greeting him now was very different from what it had been in the days
before her loss. It was much quieter and more assured. His
seniority--there were nineteen years between them--his conspicuous
place in the world, his knowledge and accomplishment, had evidently
ceased to intimidate her. Something had equalised them.

But his kindness could still make her shy.

Half-way across the room, she caught sight of a picture, on an easel,
both of which Farrell had brought with him.

'Oh!---' she said, and stopped short, looking from it to him.

He enjoyed her surprise.

'Well? Do you remember admiring it at the cottage? I'm up to the neck in
work. I never go there. I thought you and Hester might as well take care
of it for a bit.'

Nelly approached it. It was one of the Turner water-colours which
glorified the cottage; the most adorable, she thought, of all of them.
It shewed a sea of downs, their grassy backs flowing away wave after
wave, down to the real sea in the gleaming distance. Between the downs
ran a long valley floor--cottages on it, woods and houses, farms and
churches, strung on a silver river; under the mingled cloud and sunshine
of an April day. It breathed the very soul of England,--of this sacred
long-descended land of ours. Sarratt, who had stood beside her when she
had first looked at it, had understood it so at once.

'Jolly well worth fighting for--this country! isn't it?' he had said to
Farrell over her head, and once or twice afterwards he had spoken to her
of the drawing with delight. 'I shall think of it--over there. It'll do
one good.'

As she paused before it now, a sob rose in her throat. But she
controlled herself quickly. Then something beyond the easel caught her
eye--a mass of flowers, freesias, narcissus, tulips, tumbled on a table;
then a pile of new books; and finally, a surprising piece of furniture.

'What have you been doing now?' she asked him, wondering, and, as Hester
thought, shrinking back a little.

'It's from Cicely'--he said apologetically. 'She made me bring it. She
declare