“Why,” says she, “I couldn’t have him in the drill. How could I? The children’s mothers is coming down here to trim ’em. Lots of ’em--Mis’ Grace and Mis’ Morgan Graves and some more, said flat out they wouldn’t let their children be in it if they had to trim ’em along with her.” “My land,” I says, “my land!” I couldn’t say anything more. And Mis’ Sykes called the children, and they all went shouting round her over to the middle of the green. All but Chris. I picked him up and set him on the counter of the booth, and I stood side of him. But he didn’t pay much attention to me. He was looking off after the children, forming in two lines that broke into four, and wheeled and turned, and waved their wands. He watched ’em, and he never says a word. “Come and help me tack tacks, Chris,” I says, when I couldn’t stand it any longer. And then he says: “When they do it, it’s going to be a band playing, won’t there?” “Yes,” I says, “but we’ll all be hearing the music. Come and----” “When they do it,” he says, still looking off at the children, “they’ll all have white on ’em, won’t they?” “Yes,” I says, “white on ’em.” And couldn’t say no more. Then he turns and looks me right in the face: “I got my new white suit home,” he says, whispering. “Yes, lambin’, yes,” I says, and had to pretend I didn’t understand. And when I looked back at him, he was setting there, still and watching; but two big tears was going down his cheeks. All of a sudden something in me, something big and quiet, turned round to me and said something. I heard it--oh, I tell you, I heard it. And it wasn’t the first time. And all over me went racing the knowledge that there was something to do for what was the matter. And while I stood there, feeling the glory of knowing that I’d got to find a way to do, somehow--like you do sometimes--to make things better, I looked down the long green stretch of the Square and in the middle of the Square I saw something. Something that was like an answer. And I put my arms round Chris and hugged him. For I’d got a plan that was like a present. But he didn’t feel like that--not then. He kind of wriggled away. “It ain’t lovin’ time,” he says. “No.” “No,” I says, looking down that sunny Market Square toward what I’d seen. “No, it ain’t loving time--not yet. But I tell you, I tell you it’s going to be it! Mebbe I can make ’em see--mebbe I know a way to make ’em see. Come along with me,” I says, “Lisbeth’s little boy--and help!” * * * * *