were white upon
the fell-side, beside the ageing gold of the gorse, while below, the
lake lay like roughened silver in its mountain cup, and on the sides of
Nab Scar, below the screes, the bronze of the oaks ran in and out among
the feathery green of the larch plantations, or the flowering grass of
the hay-meadows dropping to the lake. The most spiritual moment of the
mountain spring was over. This was earth in her moment of ferment,
rushing towards the fruition of summer.

Nelly's youth was keenly, automatically conscious of the physical
pleasure of the day; except indeed for recurrent moments, when that very
pleasure revived the sharpness of grief. Soon it would be the
anniversary of her wedding day. Every hour of that day, and of the
honeymoon bliss which followed it, seemed to be still so close to her.
Surely she had only to put out her hand to find his, and all the horror
and the anguish swept away. Directly she shut her eyes on this spring
scene, she was in that other life, which had been, and therefore must
still be.

But she had not been talking of him with Cicely. She very seldom talked
of him now, or of the past. She kept up correspondence with half a dozen
men of his company--the brother officer to whom Sarratt had given his
last letter--a sergeant, and three or four privates, who had written to
her about him. She had made friends with them all, especially with the
young lieutenant. They seemed to like hearing from her; and she followed
all their migrations and promotions with a constant sympathy. One of
them had just written to her from a hospital at Boulogne. He had been
seriously wounded in a small affair near Festubert early in May. He was
getting better he said, but he hardly cared whether he recovered or not.
Everybody he cared for in the regiment had 'gone west' in the fighting
of the preceding month. No big push either,--just many little affairs
that came to nothing--it was 'damned luck!' There was one of his
officers that he couldn't get over--he couldn't get over 'Mr. Edward'
being killed. He--the writer--had been Mr. Edward's servant for a month
or two--having known his people at home--and a nicer young fellow
never stepped. 'When I go back, I'm going to look for Mr. Edward--they
say he was buried close to the trenches where he fell, and I'm going to
put him in some quiet place; and then when the war's over we can bring
him back to Baston Magna, and lay him with his own people in Baston
churchya