He wondered how she would take his news, for news it would be, that the Squire and Master Lionel were grimly confronting the certainty of England declaring war upon Germany. Susan read her _Daily Mail_, but not with any great faith in what newspaper men said. Having a singularly retentive memory, she prided herself upon collating contradictory statements made by irresponsible writers. Such critical powers were not exercised upon the Bible. Apparent discrepancies in the Holy Book could be, and were (so she held) reconciled by surpliced commentators. Susan, so Uncle reflected, would deal out strong doses of commonsense, which her brother, after due absorption, could in his turn distribute generously amongst the weak-kneed. There were moments when pity for his fellow-men overbrimmed in Uncle's heart, and filled him with an amorphous, inherent melancholy. He could rise to giddy heights of mirth and fall from them into unplumbed depths of depression. Susan, as he knew, stood solidly between these extremes. He was in the melancholy mood when he entered her kitchen. "Well, Susan, there be a nice bit o' pork frizzlin' in our oven, but I be in sore need o' spiritual nourishment." "Whatever ails 'ee, Habakkuk?" "'Tis the crool thought o' weepin' maids and mothers throughout the land, as robs me o' my appetite." For the moment Uncle spoke with absolute sincerity. The thought of a nation in mourning had not entered his mind till he crossed the threshold of the Yellam cottage. But he accepted it as illuminating. And, instantly, his imagination draped the idea in deepest crêpe. "Be you speaking o' French maids and mothers?" "Being the man I am, I counts 'em all in wi' us. 'Tis cut-and-dried, as the saying goes. Old England takes the field." Susan Yellam said drily: "Old England takes the field. Well, dearie, you take a chair and tell us all about it." Incredulity was written plain upon her face. Uncle opened fire at point-blank range. "Sir Gaffrey says so, Susan. Master Lionel be hot-foot for Winchester, to drill recruities." The shot went home. Mrs. Yellam's florid face paled. She had deliberately put from her the dreadful possibility. But if Sir Geoffrey said so, it was so. The blood left her face, because her first thought had been for the gracious lady of the Manor, and the young wife, two women very dear to her. As the colour came back to her cheeks, she reflected that she, personally, was not involved in these fearful issues. Mr. Lionel was a professional soldier. Wife or no wife, a Pomfret would do his duty. England's army might have to fight side by side with the French, and England's army was invincible. She said gravely: "We be in God A'mighty's hands."