He watched the figure move away with stately undulating grace, and when it was lost in the white mist he closed the gate with a heavy sigh. There lay the tracks in front of him, flower and leaf, flower and leaf, those just made showing sharp and clear, the others already half-obliterated; by nightfall all alike would have vanished. The light feet would intrude no more upon his path. Going indoors he stood for a moment by the hearth, and then drawing a note-book from his bosom, took from the little leather pocket beneath the cover a small paper packet which he proceeded to unfold. Within lay the crumbling and discoloured remnants of what once had been a rose. “Let it go with the rest!” said John Cotley, and stooping he dropped it among the embers. A little flame caught it, leaped up, flickered, and died away. A PRISONER OF WAR IT is nearly a hundred years ago now since that golden October evening which made such a change in Molly Rainford’s life; the blue-eyed children to whom she used to tell the story have long since been laid to rest, and her grandchildren—old men and women now—have almost forgotten it. Even the neighbours have ceased to wonder at the odd name which they bear, and do not realise that were it not corrupted and mispronounced, it would have a still stranger sound in their ears. On this fine October evening then, many, many years ago, Molly Rainford was setting the house-place to rights, before the return of her father and his men from the wheatfield, where they had been at work since dawn. It was worth while growing wheat in those days, as Farmer Joe could tell you, but it took long to cut, and the arms grew weary that wielded the sickle, and the sweat poured down the brown faces. Old Winny the servant, and even Susan, the lass who occasionally came in to help, had been all day in the field too, helping with other women-folk to bind the sheaves. Molly would have been there herself, but that somebody was wanted to go backwards and forwards between house and field with food and drink for the labourers. Indeed, what with carrying the ten o’clock “bagging,” the big noonday dinner, and the four o’clock “drinkings,” Molly’s arms and feet ached pretty well, but she could not sit down to rest yet; she must bestir herself, “straighten up” the house, and set out the supper—bread and cheese, cold bacon, and plenty of small beer. As she moved about the flagged room, intent on her own thoughts, she did not at first hear a low hurried tap at the outer door, which stood open; and it was not until a figure passed hurriedly through it, and stepped from the passage into the kitchen itself, that she turned round with a great start.