Eileen didn’t say much on the journey, save an occasional burst of ecstasy when she saw a rabbit sitting up and washing its face. It was interesting to watch the Devonshire ancestry looking out through eyes that hitherto had seen little but the sordid grey-brown grime of London, but were now drinking in everything on that loveliest of English lines—and where can you equal the G.W.R. for beautiful scenery, combined with such good carriage springs, such courteous officials, and such always-attentive guards? Owing to the accommodating character of the Time Table, as re-arranged by our paternal government, there was no Wye Valley connection, and we had some time to wait at Chepstow. We went into the hotel and I ordered a meal, Eileen choosing fried ham and eggs as the greatest flight of luxury to which her mind could soar. I admit it was reckless extravagance for war-time, but Virginia and I, to say nothing of Eileen, were cold and hungry, and really one can’t be held accountable for one’s actions under such circumstances. It was a noble dish when it came, enough for five people. When Eileen had cleared her first helping, she merely gazed at me with a seraphic smile, still clutching her knife and fork. I asked if she would like any more? “No, thank you, ma’am,” she replied, in the most polite company style. But seeing her eyes still on the dish, I pressed her to have another slice; I knew she would have several hours of keen fresh air before we could get our next meal. She leant a little towards me, her knife and fork held upright on the table the while. “Well, it’s like this,” she said, in a loud stage whisper, that sent a ripple over the few people who were in the coffee room. “Does you have to pay for it whether you eats it or not?” I nodded. “Then I _will_ have some more, thank you,” and she heaved a sigh of deep contentment. Perhaps it was as well Abigail didn’t come! * * * * * The drive from the station to my cottage seemed to be through one long vista of sweet odours. Up to Monmouth the Wye is a tidal river, and the water was rushing up, backed by a strong wind, bringing with it, faint but unmistakable, the salt tang of the sea, that seems all the more delicious when it has swept over woods and meadows and ploughed fields. As we left the river bank and started the long uphill climb, the scent of the newly-turned earth became more and more insistent as one passed stray farms and cottages, where the most was being made of the little bright sunshine. Although it was only the end of February, the brave bit of sunshine had stirred in the larches thoughts of coming spring, and already there was a suspicion of the resinous odour that is one of their many delightful characteristics.