glorious month was at its highest pitch. And this stout, red-cheeked woman, nearing her sixtieth year, was subtly conscious of this, although incapable of putting thoughts into words. But dominating her sense of the beauty of things there remained an even more immeasurable satisfaction common to all women when they survey their belongings, great or small, a fundamental pride in possession which Tory statesmen, denying the vote to these supermen, have failed to take into wise account. Women are basically conservative, even the humblest of them. They cling to property, to tradition; they love the deep lanes, the very ruts along which they move; they clutch to their bosoms all that is truly theirs, beginning, of course, with their own children.

At this moment, the Squire of the parish, Sir Geoffrey Pomfret, happened to be surveying his domain as seen from his own front door. And he had less reason behind a pride in great possession than Susan Yellam, inasmuch as his broad acres were an inheritance. Every vegetable and flower in the Yellam garden had been planted and tended by the proprietress. They were perfect in her eyes because of this. She had precisely the same feeling about Alfred, her son, whom she perceived leisurely approaching the comfortable home that she had made for him.

She went indoors and busied herself with preparations for the most substantial meal of the week.

Alfred quickened his pace as he approached the small stable which held his two serviceable horses and the van which plied regularly between Nether-Applewhite and Old Sarum. He, too, on entering the stable, paused to survey his possessions, but not with the same complacency which might have been seen upon his mother's face. Alfred loved his horses, and his roomy van balked dearer to him than he would have cared to admit, certainly as dear as the full-length Reynolds portrait in the dining-room of Pomfret Court was to the Squire. Both Sir Geoffrey and he knew that portrait and van must be sacrificed upon the altar of necessity. Sir Geoffrey needed twenty thousand pounds to reduce a crippling mortgage; Alfred, if he intended to keep and improve a good business, must advance with the times to the rattle of a motor. And, of late, whenever his mind had grappled with this insistent problem, he had noticed that the old van creaked more than usual, as if in protest.

Alfred fed his horses, patted their shining necks, and went into the cottage to "clean up." Splashing mightily, he smelt the beef-and-kidney pudding. Five minutes afterwards, Mrs. Yellam said grace. Mother and son ate in silence till the meal was nearly over. Then Mrs. Yellam asked a question:

"What be the name, Alferd, o' the new maid over to Vicarage?"

"Fancy Broomfield."

"Fancy! Wherever did she come by such a finical name as that?"

"I don't know, Mother."

Mrs. Yellam continued, in a slightly aggressive tone:

"I never was one to hold with queer onChristian names. It's silly, too, to call girls by names o' flowers. Look at Lily Pavey!"

"I never do," affirmed Alfred.

"Dark-complected, and no better than she should be. An' that there Rose Mucklow—! More like a gert carrot, seemin'ly."

Alfred, having enjoyed "advantages," did not use the dialect of Wiltshire, seldom heard now except from the elderly villagers. As became a carrier accustomed to pick his way through country lanes, he seldom argued with his mother, partly because he knew that her tongue was sharper than his, partly, also, because he travelled, mentally, along lines of less resistance. On this occasion, he said curtly:

"I like Fancy."

"The name or the maid?" asked his mother quickly.

"Both. The name seems to match the maid."

"Why, Alferd, whatever do 'ee know about her?"

"I brought her from Salisbury. A rare talker; she sat beside me, she did, and talked free and pleasant, as—as a throstle sings."

His mother eyed him sharply. Alfred, as a rule, disdained flowers of speech. She proceeded more warily:

"If so be as you know all about her, let's hear what's to tell. I'll say this, she behaves herself in church."

This commendation loosened Alfred's tongue, as was intended. Very leisurely, between immense mouthfuls of bread and cheese, he told an artless tale. Fancy, it appeared, was the youngest daughter of a small farrier in Salisbury, and the first of three daughters to take service. Her father enjoyed poor health. At this Mrs. Yellam sniffed. She held strong opinions, like the Squire, upon eugenics. If put to it, she might have admitted that ill-health was apportioned by Providence to the less deserving. Dissenters, in her experience, suffered more from mysterious ailments than Church-people. Draughty, jerry-built Chapels were handicraft of Satan. Alfred continued. Fancy had chosen a country place, because she was none too robust.

"Peaky and spindlin'," remarked Mrs. Yellam. "Is her mother alive?"

"The pore soul gave up the ghost when Fancy was born."

"That's very bad, Alferd."

Alfred, no pessimist, answered cheerfully:

"Might have been worse, Mother."

"Eh?"

Alfred grinned.

"She might have died before Fancy was born, and then there'd be one pretty maid the less in Nether-Applewhite to-day."

"Gracious! She do seem to find favour with 'ee. 'Tis wicked to wager money on't, but I'll lay a pound o' good butter, Alferd, that you disremember Mr. Hamlin's text this marning."

"You'd win that bet, Mother. I'm bothered and moithered to death."

"About this white-faced maid, Alferd?"

"About my old van. About the horses, too. I'm far-seeing, Mother. Get that from you, I reckon. Yesterday, in Salisbury, I did take upon myself the very hateful job of looking at a motor-'bus."

Mrs. Yellam sighed. Fancy flew out of her capacious mind.

"What be us coming to, Alferd!"

"I don't know. But I'm always one to make a guess. My son, maybe, 'll be a carrier, like his father and granfer before him; likely as not he'll want to sell the motor-'bus and buy a flying-machine. We all march on and on."

"Oh, dear! Oh, dear!"

Mrs. Yellam gazed mournfully at her son. As a Christian soldier she believed devoutly in "marching on," but such marching implied a leisurely procession, not excess speed. She hated motors, because they rushed by, covering the foot-passengers with dust or mud according to the season. She had, too, an inchoate aversion to all machinery, because it minimised and mocked at human labour, which she respected inordinately. Machinery had driven able-bodied men overseas to return no more. She had seen certain cunning handicrafts wither and die. For instance, how many thatchers were left? Machinery, so she believed, had raised the cost of living; machinery—the ubiquitous locomotive—linked together disastrously town and country, filling the minds of maids with what she called "flummery" and covering their bodies with cheap finery. Machinery, had you probed her heart to its depths, manufactured free thought, and everything else that lured God-fearing persons from the old ways. It was, indeed, hateful to think of her Alfred driving a motor-'bus.

She exclaimed impulsively:

"Alferd, don't 'ee sell the horses and van."

Alfred scratched his head, looking sheepishly at his mother. He understood her very well, and shared most of her cut-and-dried opinions, cherishing even her admonitions. All his life he had had good reason to respect and admire her sterling common sense, less rare amongst Arcadians than is generally supposed. He replied uneasily:

"That means losing good business, Mother. Folks want more and more nowadays, and they want it in a hurry."

"Leave well alone, Alferd."

"Suppose well can't be left alone? I ain't one to complain; I'm grateful to the Lord for His blessings, but if another likely young feller started a motor-'bus, he'd down-scramble me."

"I allow you knows best about that."

She sighed again. He could see that she was profoundly affected.