He went on very slowly, thinking as he spoke:

"And there's others.... You rub it well into me that this cottage'd hold more than a man and his mother. If I bring the others here, I must think of them. I'd like to do handsomely by them as come after us. Mother," his voice trembled a little, "it's more to me than you think for, but the old van must go. Our folk won't stay homealong. I'll do a big business carrying people instead of parcels."

Mrs. Yellam rose.

"If you give me they others, Alferd, I'll put up with this wondersome change. God's ways be our ways, if we look humbly into 'em. I did hear tell t'other day of a motor-hearse. Don't 'ee carry me to my grave in one!"

Alfred solemnly reassured her, and began to fill his pipe.

As a rule, he took a Sunday nap after dinner, whilst his mother was washing up. At three, he would stroll along the village street, combining business with pleasure, picking up gossip and booking orders for the coming week. Later, he might walk in the park with a companion, not always of the opposite sex. He liked a wit-sharpening talk with a man, sensible, perhaps, that his own wits had not too sharp an edge to them. The women of the village were unanimous in pronouncing him a true Yellam. All the men of his family were good to look on—stoutly-built fellows, broad-sterned and broad-shouldered, slow of speech and movement, slow, too, to wrath, patient under adversity and modest under prosperity, solid and stolid, kind to animals and children, and racy of the soil.

Upon this particular Sunday, Alfred took the high-road earlier than usual. Fate, rather than inclination, directed his steps towards the Vicarage. For the moment his van and a pair of horses filled his mind. Back of these lay a pleasant wish to pass the time of day with Fancy Broomfield. No doubt she was feeling very homesick. He wondered what she would have to say upon the subject of motor-'buses. He divined in her a vein of sentiment, which appealed to him the more strongly because it was absent in the red-cheeked, bouncing girl whom he had considered, temporarily, as a future wife. From her he had escaped—thank the Lord!

Alfred reached the village in five minutes. It was a source of pride to his mother and himself that their cottage was isolated. Such isolation carried with it a certain distinction, an immunity from derisive comment upon the Monday's washing, and the shrill voices of scolding wives, and the howling of babies. The Yellams' cottage always smelled sweet. There were no neighbours to pop in at unseasonable hours to borrow unconsidered trifles which they had no intention of returning.

Nether-Applewhite was regarded by the Squire as a model village, delightfully old-fashioned in appearance but brought up-to-date by a judicious expenditure of time and money. The passing traveller admired the width of the main street which meandered north and south, following the course of the Avon. Some of the cottages had been built in the sixteenth century, or, possibly, at an even earlier date. Some were, as obviously, modern, but not, on that account, unpleasing to the more critical, for harmony had been aimed at and achieved. The high note—la note qui chante—was the curious thatching of the roofs, some of them miracles of cunning craftsmanship. The tiny gardens blazed with colour, because the lady of the manor loved flowers and bestowed handsome prizes, each year, upon the most successful of many competitors. Stocks, red-hot-pokers, larkspur, polyanthus, peonies and dahlias caught the eye which was lured back to the humbler beauties of mignonette, forget-me-not, love-in-idleness, and a generous profusion of roses.

Few villagers were abroad, but Alfred Yellam bagged a brace of orders and exchanged banter with half-a-dozen young men loafing near the main bridge across the Avon. Amongst these happened to be a soldier, looking very smart in a kilt and white spats. Soldiers were not too highly esteemed in Nether-Applewhite. This particular specimen was the son of a notorious poacher, and till now regarded by the fathers of the hamlet as a ne'er-do-well. To-day, he carried himself handsomely, turning a bold, bronzed face upon all beholders. He spoke civilly to Alfred and enquired after his mother. He had just come back from India with his regiment, and was entertaining an appreciative audience with Eastern tales spiced like the breezes that blow from Ceylon.

Alfred listened to him, marvelling at the change in the man. Presently, he essayed a mild jest:

"You were a rare runner after the petticoats, Harry, but I never thought you'd live to wear 'em."

Bucolic laughter greeted this sally. Harry laughed as gaily as the others.

"You may come to it, Alfred Yellam, if what I hear tell of comes true."

"And whatever might that be, Harry?"

"War, Alfred, war such as you fellers never dreamed of."

"What a tale!"

Harry surveyed the group critically:

"A bit o' drill'd make men o' some of 'ee." He broke into a lusty barrack-room ditty—

Alfred said solemnly:

"I ain't one to deny that wars may come. And you were always a good fighter, Harry, but we are men o' peace."

"Ay," said one of the group, "I never did fancy soldierin'."

Alfred said slily:

"William ain't yet forgiven a Hampshire redcoat who walked out and off, by Golly! with his girl."

Having fired this shot, Alfred walked on. In his mind he turned over the thought of war, such a war as he, indeed, had never dreamed of in maddest nightmare. And the words and tune of the barrack-room ditty echoed through the cells of his brain. He wondered vaguely whether he could stick such dire discipline—ten times a day. Wouldn't he up and smite the sergeant to mother earth with his big fists, which clenched themselves at the mere thought of such a treadmill? Then he reflected comfortably that England's fleet sailed gloriously between him and such a possibility. The Squire belonged to the blue-water school. So did the Parson. Alfred muttered to himself:

"They talk that way because they know no better, pore souls!"

A carrier had other things to worry about.

Approaching the Vicarage by the back way, he heard a woman's voice. He stood still. Tender modulations fluttered, like doves of peace, out of the pantry window. Alfred smiled.

"'Tis she, the pretty dear! Talks and sings just like a throstle."

CHAPTER II

FANCY BROOMFIELD

Fancy Broomfield left Salisbury for Nether-Applewhite with a heavy heart not hidden by a pathetic smile. Possibly Alfred Yellam had a glimpse of unshed tears, when she took her place beside him in his van. And his ears may have caught a poignant note of distress quavering now and again beneath her prattle. Country folk are observant, although they keep their observations to themselves. Fancy had been happy at home. When she took a place in Salisbury, in the time-honoured Cathedral Close, she saw her people frequently. As she moved farther from Salisbury, she was grievously conscious of what separation from her father included. The fact that he was failing in health, and therefore in fortune, punctuated her misgivings. Alfred won her confidence with a few curt words about her new place and its master. He did not mention her bouncing predecessor, but he talked of the Parson and his household with the incisive tones of one who knew. What he said was reassuring. Most maidservants approach a new place with justifiable apprehensions concerning the mistress. In this case there was no mistress. Possibly disagreeable fellow-servants may arouse even livelier forebodings. A cook, for example, holds the keys of Heaven