The last evening came, and Tom’s good-byes.

“Reckon it’s always ‘good-bye’ now,” said Mrs. Beatup. “Good-bye to Ivy, good-bye to Nell, good-bye to Tom—sims as if, as if that ward ud git lik my oald broom, wore out from overuse.”

“Thur’d be no good-byes if thur hadn’t bin howdy-dos fust. So cheer up, mother, and we’ll be saying howdy-do agaun before Michaelmas.”

“And then good-bye. Oh, Tom, when ull this tedious war have done?”

“When it’s finished. Doan’t you fret over that, mother—reckon that aun’t your job.”

“I wish it ud have done, though, before our hearts are broke.”

Nell was expected home that evening, and Mrs. Beatup persuaded Tom to wait for her. He spent the interval going over the farm with Harry, and giving last advice, [255] though it was astonishing how firm on his legs his brother now stood. He also took his chance of a straight talk with Zacky.

“Reckon you’re growing up lik a young colt, and you’ll have to taake your turn now—step into Harry’s plaace saum as he stepped into mine.”

Zacky’s besetting sin was not a lust for adventure in woods and distant fields; he moved in a more humdrum circle of dereliction—marbles and conkers and worms and string. However, Tom discovered that he had a passion for “taking things to pieces” and hoped to inspire him to zeal over the new mechanical reaper which was that year to be the wonder of Worge’s harvest.

To everyone’s disappointment, Nell did not arrive in a cab. She came on foot from Senlac station, leaving her box to follow by the carrier. Mrs. Beatup felt that Tom had been cheated, on his last day at home, of a fine spectacular entertainment, and was inclined to be peevish with Nell on his account.

“Reckon it wurn’t your husband who told you to walk six mile in the dust.”

“No—but it’s such a beautiful evening, and I felt I wanted the fresh air after London.”

She looked worn and fagged, as she sat down by the fire, spreading out her pale hands to the flames to warm.

Mrs. Beatup sniffed.

“Reckon thur’s more air-raids than air in London,” said Tom—“Ha! ha!” and they all laughed at the joke.

“But they dudn’t have naun while Nell was there,” said Mrs. Beatup, continuing her grumble. “Nell, how dud you lik the Strand Paliss Hotel?”

“Oh, pretty fair—it was very grand, but a great big barrack like that makes my head turn round.”

“How big was it?” asked Zacky. “As big as [256] church?”

“Bigger a dunnamany times,” said Mrs. Beatup. “I’ve seen the Hotel Metropoil in Brighton, and reckon you cud git the whole street into it.”

“Did you have a fire in your bedroom?”

“No—there were hot pipes.”

“Hot pipes! How queer!—I shud feel as if I wur in a boiler.”

“And there was hot and cold water laid on.”

“Reckon you washed.”

“I had a bath.”

“In your room?”

“No—in a bathroom.”

“A real white bath in a bathroom!...” Mrs. Beatup was regaining confidence in her daughter. “You’ll be gitting too grand fur us here. They say as once you start taaking baths it’s like taaking drams, and you can’t git shut of it. I’ll have to see if I can’t fix fur you to have the wash-tub now and agaun.... Oh, you’ll find us plain folks here.”

Nell did not speak; she was stooping over the fire an............