she had done. It was
arguable, at any rate. Everything was arguable. As to the effect on
Nelly of the outward and visible facts of Sarratt's death, it seemed to
have been exactly what she, Bridget, had foreseen. Through some
Manchester acquaintance she succeeded in getting occasional news of
Nelly, who was, it appeared, killing herself with hard and disagreeable
work. She heard also from the woman left in charge of the Loughrigg farm
that all Mrs. Sarratt's personal possessions had been sent to the care
of Miss Martin, and that Sir William had shut up the cottage and never
came there. Sometimes Bridget would grimly contrast this state of things
with what might have happened, had her stroke succeeded, and had George
died unrecognised. In that event how many people would have been made
happy, who were now made miserable!

The winter passed away, the long and bitter winter which seemed to
sharpen for English hearts and nerves all the suffering of the war. On
the Somme the Germans were secretly preparing the retreat which began
with the spring, while the British armies were growing to their full
stature, month by month, and England was becoming slowly accustomed to
the new and amazing consciousness of herself as a great military power.
And meanwhile death in the trenches still took its steady toll of our
best and dearest; and at sea, while British sea-power pressed home its
stifling grasp on the life of Germany, the submarine made England
anxious, but not afraid.

March shewed some pale gleams of spring, but April was one of the
coldest and dreariest in the memory of living man. The old earth in
sympathy with the great struggle that was devastating and searing her,
seemed to be withholding leaf and flower, and forbidding the sun to woo
her.

Till the very first days of May! Then, with a great return upon herself,
Nature flew to work. The trees rushed into leaf, and never had there
been such a glorious leafage. Everything was late, but everything was
perfection. And nowhere was the spring loveliness more lovely than in
Westmorland. The gentle valleys of the Lakes had been muffled in snow
and scourged with hail. The winter furies had made their lairs in the
higher fells, and rushed shrieking week after week through delicate and
quiet scenes not made for them. The six months from November to May had
been for the dale-dwellers one long endurance. But in one May week all
was forgotten, and atoned for. Beauty, 'an hourly pres