But this clearness did not last long, and it was always fogged in the same way—by a sense of her own unworthiness. She told herself that she was wicked to despise Steve, who was much better than she in his different way. He might be uneducated, coarse, and self-willed, but he was strong and brave and resolute, all the things that she was not—“And I say unto you, despise not one of these little ones, for their angels do always behold the face of my Father which is in heaven.” ... Then she would remember his wound, which he had got fighting for her and England over at Loos, and in the depths of that self-contempt which was so often with her now, alternating with her moods of self-confidence, she acknowledged that she had done nothing for the War. Though she had always prided herself on being more patriotic than the rest of her family, she had done far less than they—less than Tom, who had gone to fight, even if ignorant and unwilling; less than Harry, who had boldly flung down his challenge to the earth and taken up arms against her for his country’s sake; less than Ivy, who was cheerfully and competently filling a man’s place and doing a man’s work; less than her mother, who had borne these children for her country’s need; less even than her father, who paid rates and taxes and cultivated the ground. The fact that they were all, except perhaps Harry, more or less unconscious of their service, only made her reproach greater. She of her knowledge had done nothing, and they of their ignorance had done much. Who was she to despise them or Kadwell? Should she not take this chance to do the little she could by bringing comfort and happiness into a soldier’s life? She knew all the difference that Thyrza had made to Tom—let her do the same for Steve, humbly, simply, conscious of her failure up till now. Early in the New Year Bill Putland suddenly came home on leave, and still more suddenly married a bewildered and delighted Polly Sinden. They had not even been definitely engaged; she had not known he was coming home till she got his telegram, fixing not only the date of his arrival but the date of the wedding. They were married at Brownbread Street, by an elderly clergyman who was taking the curate’s place during his honeymoon—Mr. Poullett-Smith had been married up at Dallington, and the joyful clash of his wedding chimes came to Nell as she sat with Steve in the sun-slatted murk of the Dutch barn, and made her more than usually submissive to his caresses. Ivy, delighted at her friend’s good luck, forgave a long coldness, and came to Polly’s marriage. She brought with her Sergeant Staples, and after the ceremony took him to Worge for tea. Mrs. Beatup had not been to the wedding, for Thyrza’s illness had begun, and her mother-in-law had spent most of the afternoon down at the Shop. “Oh, she’s doing valiant,” she said in answer to their enquiries, “but ’tis unaccountable hard on a girl to be wudout her husband at such a time....”