Jean Marie worked manfully in the wheat-field, but in the evenings, and every spare moment during the day, he was at Molly’s side. He pumped water for her, carried her pail, swept up her kitchen, and even lit the fire before she came down in the morning. He had such pleasant ways withal, and such a kindly smile, that it was no wonder Molly smiled on him in return, and that the work-people soon began to whisper that she and the “Liverpool mon” were “coortin’.” On the evening of the third day, work being finished, and Jean outstripping his mates, and finding Molly alone in the kitchen, was greeted by her so cordially that somehow—he never quite knew how—he found his arm round her waist, and words of love leaping to his lips. She was an angel, a darling; he would never love anyone but her, and she must love him too; he must go away now, but when the war was over he would come back, and they must be married. “But my father will never allow it,” stammered Molly, making no attempt, however, to disengage herself. And at this most inopportune moment in walked Farmer Joe. The state of things that ensued can be imagined. The old farmer’s fury; Jean Marie’s protestations; Molly’s tearful and inconsequent assurances, first, that she knew nothing about it, and that it wasn’t her fault, secondly, that “as how ’twas” she would never have any other sweetheart. After a time, however, peace was in some measure restored; the young folks silently resolved to achieve their end, while Farmer Joe loudly announced that, as the chap was bound to leave in two-three days, he’d keep his word to him for this time, but he’d be domned if he didn’t give him up if ever he showed his face there again. After that he interfered no more, and though he was well aware that Jean and Molly continued their courting on the sly, he left them alone, and, except for an occasional sarcasm anent “Frenchies” and “frog-eaters,” made no attempt to molest Jean. On the morning of the day fixed for the young man’s departure, however, he received news which changed his contemptuous indifference into active hatred and fury. He came staggering into the kitchen with an ashy-white face and starting eyeballs. Parson Bradley had been with him, and had announced to him the death of his son, Teddy, in foreign parts. “They’n killed him,” he cried. “Those domned Frenchies ha’ killed my lad. See, here’s his name in th’ paper parson brought me. Eh, my lad—and I druv him fro’ the door! And now they’n killed him, the domned raskils!” Molly gave a cry, and flung her apron over her head, and Jean came forward, full of genuine distress and sympathy. But at sight of him the old man’s face became suddenly suffused with a rush of returning colour; he babbled with inarticulate rage, and shook his fist threateningly.