There was Herbert pickin’ lettuces just for the chance of going to Mrs. Lane in the kitchen with them. He raised his bent body and touched his cap. She nodded. Again she cried: “Weston!” A cry came from the other end, from the middle of the artichokes, the tops of which you could hardly see--it was a big kitchen garden. Weston appeared walking quickly. He took his cap off. “How are the peaches getting on?” Peaches were good for convalescents. “Very nicely’m. Going to be a good crop, and the apples too. Was among the artichokes’m. Fine crop this year. Never seen ’em so high.” “What beautiful cabbages, Weston.” He would eat them, as he could not see flowers. “Yes’m. Going to be a good crop.” “Yes; well, good morning, Weston.” “Good morning’m.” Into the garden. Pinch was still at the same spot on the border as he had been when she had looked out of her bedroom window. He was too old, but he was a faithful servant. Yes, his wife was going on as well as was to be hoped. Yes, it was bad weather for the farmers. Pinch was the same, so why had _he_ changed? What was the matter with Pinch’s wife? Just age perhaps, any way they would be the next for the almshouses. When Mrs. Biggs died they could go in, and that should not be long now. This would leave vacant their cottage in Ploughman’s Lane, which that nice man from Huntly could have. How nice the trees were with their fresh green; whatever happened the seasons went round. If this warm weather went on he could get out to be on the lawn, but then you could never tell with the English spring. She would have to go in to write those letters, while it was so lovely out here. There was the moorhen starting her nest in the same place in the moat. Mrs. Trench’s baby would be due about now, her sixth, while that Jim Pender, earning excellent wages, only had his one girl, and she was five years old. It was ridiculous, she would have to speak to him about it, a great strong fellow like him with such a pretty wife. She must have some jelly and things sent up to Mrs. Trench. He must take an interest in the village now that he had nothing to do. He could start a club for the men and teach them something, he would do it very well, talking about art or books, or one of those things he was so interested in. That would do something to occupy his time. There was a daffodil out already, it had planted itself there, it looked so pretty against the bole of the tree. How good a garden was for one! She felt quieter after the ghastly night she had had. The only way out of trouble like this was to work for others till you forgot, when a plan would emerge quite suddenly, that was what life taught one, and Mabel was the same. Annie was weeding the gravel of the Yew Walk. In summer she weeded, in winter she swept leaves, and she picked up dead branches all the year round. “Good morning, Annie.” “Good morning’m.”