And there seems no limit to the crimson splashes. Is there anything anywhere that can compare with the Herb Robert, its leaves far more radiant than its blossoms; or the leaves of the evening primrose when they start to fade at the bottom of the stem; or the waning foliage of the sorrel? To make a list of the crimson touches (as distinct from the reddish-brown) that one finds on stems and foliage any day in the country, would be a revelation to most of us. * * * * * Though the sun had been so bright when we started, it doesn’t do to trust too much in an English spring, and we presently noticed a very decided change; the temperature dropped with great rapidity, as clouds came up and hid the sun, and the hills that towered about us suddenly loomed gloomy and forbidding. The wind veered round from south-west to north-east; and by evening it was piercingly, bitterly cold. Taking a last look round with the lantern before we locked up for the night, not a sound could be heard; everything was absolutely still, with that unearthly silence of a land suddenly gripped by overpowering cold. I glanced at the thermometer hanging on the outside wall; it already registered three degrees below freezing; it would probably be ten before morning. We bolted the door and shut out the cold, hoping no one was wandering lost on the hills that night (not that anyone ever is, but it is pleasant to have kind charitable thoughts like that, on a bleak night, as you put yet another log on the fire). * * * * * Next morning, as it was colder and more perishing than ever, I decided to cope with several days’ arrears of office work, piling itself up in all directions. Virginia said it was just as well the weather necessitated our remaining indoors, as she could now get on with _her_ work. Of course we asked: What work? She informed us that she was engaged upon an anthology, “Shakespeare and the Great War.” She felt that “Shakespeare and Everything Else” had been done pretty thoroughly—by less competent people than herself, it is true; but, all the same, the poet had been dealt with exhaustively from every point of view but that of the War. Also, the War had been dealt with, _in extenso_, from every point of view but Shakespeare’s. Hence, her present literary effort. And would I kindly give her any quotations I could think of, that had any bearing on this world-crisis. All my brain was equal to was— “Tell me, where is fancy bred?” which undoubtedly indicated that the War Loaf was known to pall on the public taste even in Shakespeare’s time. She said she had expected me to say that, it was so obvious. Nevertheless, I noticed she hurriedly jotted it down. We asked her to read her MS. so far as she had gone; it seemed a pity for us to overlap. “I’ve made a fair start,” she explained, “but the trouble is they all turn out so awkwardly. For instance, the first quotation I have down is—