“How sweet of you.” She contrasted his blatant unselfishness with the hardness of Stephen. Stephen never came out to help you. But if you got hold of him he was some good. He didn’t wobble and bend at the critical moment. Her fancy compared Rickie to the cracked church bell sending forth its message of “Pang! pang!” to the countryside, and Stephen to the young pagans who were said to lie under this field guarding their pagan gold. “This place is full of ghosties,” she remarked; “have you seen any yet?” “I’ve kept on the outer rim so far.” “Let’s go to the tree in the centre.” “Here’s the path.” The bank of grass where he had sat was broken by a gap, through which chariots had entered, and farm carts entered now. The track, following the ancient track, led straight through turnips to a similar gap in the second circle, and thence continued, through more turnips, to the central tree. “Pang!” said the bell, as they paused at the entrance. “You needn’t unharness,” shouted Mrs. Failing, for Stephen was approaching the carriage. “Yes, I will,” he retorted. “You will, will you?” she murmured with a smile. “I wish your brother wasn’t quite so uppish. Let’s get on. Doesn’t that church distract you?” “It’s so faint here,” said Rickie. And it sounded fainter inside, though the earthwork was neither thick nor tall; and the view, though not hidden, was greatly diminished. He was reminded for a minute of that chalk pit near Madingley, whose ramparts excluded the familiar world. Agnes was here, as she had once been there. She stood on the farther barrier, waiting to receive them when they had traversed the heart of the camp. “Admire my mangel-wurzels,” said Mrs. Failing. “They are said to grow so splendidly on account of the dead soldiers. Isn’t it a sweet thought? Need I say it is your brother’s?” “Wonham’s—?” he suggested. It was the second time that she had made the little slip. She nodded, and he asked her what kind of ghosties haunted this curious field. “The D.,” was her prompt reply. “He leans against the tree in the middle, especially on Sunday afternoons and all the worshippers rise through the turnips and dance round him.” “Oh, these were decent people,” he replied, looking downwards—“soldiers and shepherds. They have no ghosts. They worshipped Mars or Pan—Erda perhaps; not the devil.” “Pang!” went the church, and was silent, for the afternoon service had begun. They entered the second entrenchment, which was in height, breadth, and composition, similar to the first, and excluded still more of the view. His aunt continued friendly. Agnes stood watching them. “Soldiers may seem decent in the past,” she continued, “but wait till they turn into Tommies from Bulford Camp, who rob the chickens.”