From that day forward Joseph Frisby was respected by all the village folk. He had “got religion,” to begin with—more religion than anybody had credited him with, and he had evidently been singled out by Heaven for special favours. His crop prospered wonderfully; people were quite amazed to see the marvellous return made by their contributions, and were the more astonished because other small producers had not found it such a very good year for taters. There were many gaps among the ranks at the allotments, and it was noticeable that Jan Domeny, in particular, had suffered severely. No one was more loud in commiserating this misfortune than Joseph Frisby. “The ways of Providence be wonderful, as the Scriptur’s say, Jan Domeny,” he remarked one day. “Aye, ’tis what I often d’ say to myself: a man may plant and a man may water, but ’tis the Lard as gives the increase.” “Well,” returned Jan, a little grudgingly, “I d’ ’low that He’ve a-gi’ed it to you, Mr. Frisby.” “He have, Jan; He have!” agreed Joseph heartily. “THE ONLY SOLDIER.” A LITTLE group of houses nestling in the hollow near the church, about half a mile from the village proper; all with tiled roofs more or less the worse for wear, and in consequence highly picturesque, tiny patches of flower-garden in front, and larger strips, devoted to vegetables, in the rear. Some of these cottages stood back to back, others retired a little from their fellows, and one shot out at a bold angle from its neighbour with a certain independent air which was increased by the rakish poise of its somewhat dilapidated chimney. As the hands of the ancient grandfather’s clock in this last-named dwelling-house approached the hour of noon, a short, spare, elderly woman threw open the door and took up her position on the carefully whitened step. She looked expectantly up the road in the direction of the village, and of the town beyond. Presently another couple of doors were thrown back, and two additional figures—the figures of Mrs. Stuckhey’s nearest neighbours—also emerged into the open and cast glances of anticipation in the same direction. The coincidence seemed to strike one of the party, a fat woman with a good-humoured face and untidy wisps of greyish hair escaping from the control of the solitary and crooked brass hairpin which was supposed to keep them in their place. “We be all on the look-out, we mid say,” she remarked. “I be awaitin’ for the childern. ’Tis time they were home from school. I have to send David on a message before he goes back after dinner.” “My son d’ seen to be a bit late too,” chimed in the lady whose doorstep was parallel to that of the last speaker; a somewhat vixenish-looking person this, with a pinched and pointed nose, and a sour mouth that seldom smiled. “He be kept awful busy up at the line,” she continued fretfully. “He do seem to work twice so hard as he did since that there old war began. I d’ wish it was ended, that I do.”