But Miss Stokes did not speak: she only stared with large, icy blue eyes at him. He became self-conscious, lifted up his chin, walked with his nose in the air, and whistled at random. So they went down the quiet, deserted grey lane. He was whistling the air: “I’m Gilbert, the filbert, the colonel of the nuts.” At last she found her voice: “Where’s Joe?” “He thought you’d like a change: they say variety’s the salt of life—that’s why I’m mostly in pickle.” “Where is he?” “Am I my brother’s keeper? He’s gone his own ways.” “Where?” “Nay, how am I to know? Not so far but he’ll be back for supper.” She stopped in the middle of the lane. He stopped facing her. “Where’s Joe?” she asked. He struck a careless attitude, looked down the road this way and that, lifted his eyebrows, pushed his khaki cap on one side, and answered: “He is not conducting the service tonight: he asked me if I’d officiate.” “Why hasn’t he come?” “Didn’t want to, I expect. _I_ wanted to.” She stared him up and down, and he felt uncomfortable in his spine, but maintained his air of nonchalance. Then she turned slowly on her heel, and started to walk back. The corporal went at her side. “You’re not going back, are you?” he pleaded. “Why, me and you, we should get on like a house on fire.” She took no heed, but walked on. He went uncomfortably at her side, making his funny remarks from time to time. But she was as if stone deaf. He glanced at her, and to his dismay saw the tears running down her cheeks. He stopped suddenly, and pushed back his cap. “I say, you know—” he began. But she was walking on like an automaton, and he had to hurry after her. She never spoke to him. At the gate of her farm she walked straight in, as if he were not there. He watched her disappear. Then he turned on his heel, cursing silently, puzzled, lifting off his cap to scratch his head. That night, when they were in bed, he remarked: “Say, Joe, boy; strikes me you’re well-off without Monkey-nuts. Gord love us, beans ain’t in it.” So they slept in amity. But they waited with some anxiety for the morrow. It was a cold morning, a grey sky shifting in a cold wind, and threatening rain. They watched the wagon come up the road and through the yard gates. Miss Stokes was with her team as usual; her “Whoa!” rang out like a war-whoop. She faced up at the truck where the two men stood. “Joe!” she called, to the averted figure which stood up in the wind. “What?” he turned unwillingly. She made a queer movement, lifting her head slightly in a sipping, half-inviting, half-commanding gesture. And Joe was crouching already to jump off the truck to obey her, when Albert put his hand on his shoulder. “Half a minute, boy! Where are you off? Work’s work, and nuts is nuts. You stop here.” Joe slowly straightened himself. “Joe!” came the woman’s clear call from below.