A hot August noon blazed over Becklington common, as I lay thinking and thinking, staring up into the blue sky, and for all the richness of the day, sad enough in heart.

In the valley below me the stream still splashed happily down to the mill, and away on the far hills the white flocks were grazing peacefully as ever.

And above my head poised and quivering sang a lark.

The Spring had rounded into maturity, and Summer, lavish and wonderful and queenly, rested on her throne.

Why should there be war anywhere in the world? I asked.

And yet along a far frontier it flickered even now, sinister and relentless. A little war and, to me, a silent one—yet there it rose and fell and smouldered, and grew fierce, and in the grip of it two brave grey eyes had closed forever.

I heard the quiet, well-known voice.

"Tommy is not an ordinary boy," it said.

How we had smiled at the simple honest pride that this soldier had taken in his son.

I turned over and groaned, as I thought of it all—our parting in the old study—our promise—the half-comedy, half-responsibility of the situation.

And we had borne it so lightly, tossed for the boy, taken him more as an obstreperous plaything than a serious charge.

And now—well it matters not upon which of us the mantle of his legal guardian had fallen, nor upon whom lay the administration of his affairs—for we all had silently renewed our vows to one who was dead, and felt that there was something sacred in this mission, which lay upon the shoulders of each one of us.

Poor Tommy—none of us knew how the blow had taken him, for to none of us had he written since the news reached England, save indeed when, in a brief line to me, he had announced his return next week.

We had all written to him, as our separate natures and feelings had dictated, but no reply had reached us—and how should we know that of all the letters he had received, only one was deemed worthy of preservation—and that written in a round childish hand?

"Dear Tommy—I am so sorry. Your loving Madge."

A damp sorry little note it was, but it remained in Tommy's pocket long after our more stately compositions had been torn up and forgotten.

To us, leading our quiet commonplace peaceful life in this little midland village, the shock had come with double force.

Perhaps we had been apt to dwell so little on the eternal verities of chance and change and life and death as to have become almost oblivious of their existence, at any rate in our own sphere.

Those of the villagers who, year by year, in twos and threes, were gathered to their fathers, were old and wrinkled and ready for death, resting quietly under the good red earth, well content with sleep.

And these we had missed, but scarcely mourned, feeling that, in the fitness of things, it was well that they should cease from toil.

But here was our friend, straight and strong and vigorous, cut down by some robber bullet in an Indian pass—and to us all, I fancy, the shock came with something of terror, and something of awakening in its tragedy. Outwardly we had shown little enough.

The poet, when the first stun of the blow had passed, had written his grief in the best lines I had ever seen from his pen.

The vicar had preached a quiet scholarly sermon in our friend's memory.

And now all reference to the dead had ceased among us, for the time.

To-morrow, Tommy was to come back from school, and all of us, I fancy, dreaded the first meeting.

We had arranged that each of our houses was to be open to him, and that in each a bed should be prepared, so that, as the mood took him, he might sleep where he thought best.

But the meeting, at the station, was a matter of considerable trepidation to us.

I strolled down the hill to the poet's house.

"Good morning," I said, "I—I am rather keen on running up to town, to-morrow, to see those pictures, you know."

The poet smiled.

"I did not know you were a patron of art," he observed. "I am gratified at this development."

"Ah—could you meet Tommy at 2.15?"

The poet's face fell.

"I—I am very busy," he said, deprecatingly.

"'Lucien and Angelica' ought to be concluded by to-morrow evening."

We were silent, both looking into the trembling haze, up the valley.

"The doctor," suggested the poet.

"I will try."

But the doctor was also very much engaged.

"Two cases up at Bonnor, in the downs," he explained.

I called on the vicar.

"I—I want to go up to town to see that china exhibit," I observed.

He looked interested.

"I didn't know you were a connoisseur," he remarked.

"Not at all, not at all—the merest tyro."

"I am glad. You will find the show well worth your attention."

I bent my head to the vicar's roses.

"These Richardsons are very lovely," I said.

The vicar smiled.

"I think they have repaid a little trouble," he said modestly.

"Ah—could you possibly meet the 2.15 to-morrow?"

"You are expecting a parcel?"

"No—not exactly. Tommy, you know."

The vicar took a turn on the lawn. Then he came to a standstill in front of me.

"I had planned a visit to Becklington," he said.

I bowed.

"I am sorry," said I, and turned to go.

At the gate he touched my shoulder.

"Mathews!"

I paused.

"I am a coward, Mathews—but I will go."

We looked into each other's eyes, and I repented.

"No, old friend. I ought to go and I will go. By Jove, I will."

"So be it," said the vicar.

I had played with my luncheon, to the concern of my man, who regarded me anxiously.

"Are you not well, sir?" he asked.

"Quite well," I replied, icily, with a remark about bad cooking, and careless service, and strode towards the station.

I paced the platform moodily twenty minutes before the advertised arrival of the train.

I was very early, but somebody, apparently, was before me.

I caught a glimpse of a strangely characteristic hat in the corner of the little waiting-room.

Its shapelessness was familiar.

I looked in, and the poet seemed a little confused.

"Lucien and Angel—?" I began, enquiringly.

He waved his hand, with some superiority.

"Inspiration cannot be commanded," he observed. "They shall wait until Saturday."

We sat down in the shade, and conversation flagged. Presently steps approached, pacing slowly along the wooden platform.

It was the vicar.

He looked a little conscious, and no doubt read the enquiry in my eyes.

"It is too hot," he said, "to drive to Becklington before tea," and the three of us sat silently down together.

At last a porter came, and looked up and down the line.

Apparently he saw no obstruction, for he proceeded to lower the signal.

We rose and paced to and fro, with valorously concealed agitation.

A trap dashed along the white road, and some one ran, breathlessly, up the stairs.

He seemed a little surprised at the trio which awaited him.

"I thought you had two cases in Bonnor," I observed, with a piercing glance.

The doctor looked away, but did not reply, and I forbore to press the point.

Far down the line shone a cloudlet of white smoke and the gleam of brass through the dust.

"Becklington, Harrowley, Borcombe and Hoxford train," roared the porter, apparently as a reminder to the station-master, for there were no passengers.

We stood, a nervous group, in the shadow of the waiting-room.

"Poor boy—poor little chap," said the vicar at last. "We must cheer him up—God bless him."

Youth is not careless of grief, but God has made it the master of sorrow, and Tommy's eyes were bright, as he jumped onto the platform.

He smiled complacently into our anxious faces—so genuine a smile that our poor carved ones relaxed into reality.

"I've got a ripping chameleon," he observed cheerfully.