Alfred reached the village in five minutes. It was a source of pride to his mother and himself that their cottage was isolated. Such isolation carried with it a certain distinction, an immunity from derisive comment upon the Monday's washing, and the shrill voices of scolding wives, and the howling of babies. The Yellams' cottage always smelled sweet. There were no neighbours to pop in at unseasonable hours to borrow unconsidered trifles which they had no intention of returning. Nether-Applewhite was regarded by the Squire as a model village, delightfully old-fashioned in appearance but brought up-to-date by a judicious expenditure of time and money. The passing traveller admired the width of the main street which meandered north and south, following the course of the Avon. Some of the cottages had been built in the sixteenth century, or, possibly, at an even earlier date. Some were, as obviously, modern, but not, on that account, unpleasing to the more critical, for harmony had been aimed at and achieved. The high note--_la note qui chante_--was the curious thatching of the roofs, some of them miracles of cunning craftsmanship. The tiny gardens blazed with colour, because the lady of the manor loved flowers and bestowed handsome prizes, each year, upon the most successful of many competitors. Stocks, red-hot-pokers, larkspur, polyanthus, peonies and dahlias caught the eye which was lured back to the humbler beauties of mignonette, forget-me-not, love-in-idleness, and a generous profusion of roses. Few villagers were abroad, but Alfred Yellam bagged a brace of orders and exchanged banter with half-a-dozen young men loafing near the main bridge across the Avon. Amongst these happened to be a soldier, looking very smart in a kilt and white spats. Soldiers were not too highly esteemed in Nether-Applewhite. This particular specimen was the son of a notorious poacher, and till now regarded by the fathers of the hamlet as a ne'er-do-well. To-day, he carried himself handsomely, turning a bold, bronzed face upon all beholders. He spoke civilly to Alfred and enquired after his mother. He had just come back from India with his regiment, and was entertaining an appreciative audience with Eastern tales spiced like the breezes that blow from Ceylon. Alfred listened to him, marvelling at the change in the man. Presently, he essayed a mild jest: "You were a rare runner after the petticoats, Harry, but I never thought you'd live to wear 'em." Bucolic laughter greeted this sally. Harry laughed as gaily as the others. "You may come to it, Alfred Yellam, if what I hear tell of comes true." "And whatever might that be, Harry?" "War, Alfred, war such as you fellers never dreamed of." "What a tale!" Harry surveyed the group critically: "A bit o' drill'd make men o' some of 'ee." He broke into a lusty barrack-room ditty--