outside—a husband and three children. But her Easter bonnet had a touch of mauve in it.

Her clothes were not the least part of a tremendous personality. Children believed that she went to bed in her black gown. Authority exuded from every pore of her skin. Probably Boadicea was cast in just such a generous mould. She possessed, as will be seen presently, that British cocksureness which so endears us to foreigners. Her particular views upon religion, politics, ethics and agriculture (she tended her own garden admirably)—views constantly aired for the benefit of her neighbours—had become indurated by use. They had stood, as she informed all and sundry, the test of time and experience. The Parson, Mr. Hamlin, observed of her that she was temperamentally incapable of detecting the defects of her great qualities. She supported Squire and Parson in all that they said or did, and after the gracious lady of the manor was the most respected woman in Nether-Applewhite.

Upon a certain Sunday in June, 1914, Susan Yellam sat as usual in her pew. Across the aisle, higher up, sat the Squire's servants, and behind them the Parson's three maids. Before the service began, Mrs. Yellam noticed that one of the maids was a stranger and not country-bred. The girl flaunted no finery, but the cut of her modest skirt and jacket proclaimed her urban. Mrs. Yellam guessed that this was Mr. Hamlin's new parlourmaid from Old Sarum. She might be described as pretty, but "peaky" and "spindling." The Squire preached eugenics, in and out of season, and upon the subject of young females as potential mothers Mrs. Yellam saw eye to eye with that genial autocrat. However, she consoled herself with the reflection that Nether-Applewhite air and good plain food would accomplish a much needed change. She hoped that the girl would not smirk or giggle if old Captain Davenant read the lessons, an infallible test in propriety for strangers. And she wondered vaguely what Alfred would think of her. For a season, Alfred had "walked out" with this young woman's predecessor, a bouncing, red-cheeked lass of the village. Nothing had come of such perambulations. Alfred was what the French term "un célebataire endurci." And he was made extremely comfortable at home. But he had passed his thirtieth year, and of late his mother had hinted discreetly that her cottage, larger than most, could accommodate three persons—or more.

Her thoughts were distracted from the new parlourmaid by the arrival of the Squire and his party. All eyes in the church were concentrated upon the Squire's only son, Lionel, who brought with him his young wife, Joyce, the daughter of Mr. Hamlin. Mrs. Yellam knew that this had been a love-match, brought to a happy issue against opposition. It was known, also, that Master Lionel had left his regiment, the Rifle Brigade, and was installed as his sire's land agent. Tongues had wagged freely concerning a young soldier's competence for such a position. But Mrs. Yellam had firm faith in the lords of the soil. Master Lionel, in her opinion, had done the real right thing, both in his choice of a wife and of a calling. Perhaps to her the call of the land sounded a more clarion note than any other.

Mr. Hamlin and the choir filed in. The congregation rose. In the days of Mr. Hamlin's predecessor, nobody budged from his comfortable seat when the parson bustled out of the vestry. Mr. Hamlin had changed all that. He put down billing and cooing in the galleries, and the sucking of peppermints. At first he was regarded with hostile eyes as an innovator, but gradually it became known that he had restored forms and ceremonies which presented definite meaning to the instructed. Villagers love forms and ceremonies when they are discreetly led to understand them.

Old Captain Davenant read the lessons, and the new parlourmaid emerged triumphant from the ordeal. Mrs. Yellam noticed, too, that she joined in the responses, and sang the hymns in a modestly restrained, clear, musical voice. Later, she listened attentively to the sermon. So far, so good. At the same time, it became obvious to the mother that her son, even more than herself, was impressed by the deportment and behaviour of this pretty stranger. During the psalms Alfred's eyes strayed too often across the narrow aisle, and at sounds of a soft, beguiling voice he opened his mouth and left it open for a significant space of time.

After church, Mrs. Yellam walked home by herself, exchanging sober greetings with her neighbours. Alfred lingered in the churchyard, as was his custom, because, being a carrier, he captured a little extra trade thereby. Also, although a confirmed bachelor, he liked to bandy pleasantries with the women, young and old, who were indeed his principal customers.

Mrs. Yellam, having curtsied respectfully to the Squire and his lady, moved majestically along the village street. As she passed the baker's a savoury odour of baked meats assailed her nostrils. It is said that smell affects the memory potently. So long as she could remember, Susan Yellam had connected this smell of baked meat with Divine Service. As a child she had fetched her Sunday dinner from the grandfather of the present baker, and, always, as a reward, her mother had given her a large lollipop. After she married, her Sunday dinner was cooked for her in the same oven and carried to her cottage by a small maid, who, then and there, received and consumed an immense bull's-eye. And it seemed to Mrs. Yellam a very fitting and proper thing that on Sunday the flesh should be as adequately nourished as the spirit. Invariably, also, on passing the baker's, she experienced a mournful pleasure in recalling her late husband's remarkable appetite. Alfred, as a trencherman, was no degenerate son of such a sire.

When she reached the bend of the road, which skirts the placid Avon, she saw her cottage and smiled pleasantly. It was thatched, and on that account beloved by elderly spinsters who drew in water-colour, and frowned upon by sanitary inspectors. The thatch, a masterpiece of craftsmanship, surmounted whitewashed walls held together by stout oak beams black as the Ace of Spades. Generations of Yellams had lived and died in this cottage. Some might have lived longer—so said the sanitary inspectors—if the Avon, inconsiderate stream, had never overflowed its banks, making thereby an island of the cottage and its garden.

She entered her house, and walked into the parlour, rarely used. Upon a round table near the window was an immense family Bible. Mrs. Yellam placed her prayer-book beside it, and turned to go into the kitchen, which served as a living-room for herself and her son. Suddenly she paused, went back to the table, and opened the Bible. It had belonged to Alfred's great-grandfather. Upon a fly-leaf were many names and dates—births, marriages and deaths. Her eyes lingered upon Alfred's name.

Alfred Habakkuk Yellam, born November 19th, 1883.

Alfred's father had objected to the name Habakkuk. But Alfred's mother had her way. A favourite brother had been so christened.

She closed the Book. Yes; it was fully time that Alfred should marry. She wondered what name would be inscribed beside his.

At the kitchen door she found waiting a small Hebe carrying a beef-steak pudding in a basin done up in a white napkin. Mrs. Yellam took the pudding from the child, placed it in the oven, after removing the napkin, and said wonderingly:

"Whatever be you waiting for?"

Hebe grinned. Young children love old jokes. Mrs. Yellam took from a shelf a large green bottle, shook it, and produced the expected bull's-eye. Hebe opened wide her mouth. Mrs. Yellam popped in the sweet. Hebe raced away to her own dinner. Mrs. Yellam, holding the bottle in her hand, stood still for a minute, watching the diminutive, diminishing figure till it was lost to sight. Then she turned and contemplated her garden smiling beneath a June sun. The midsummer heat still held deliciously the freshness of spring. The pervasive charm of the