As the season of Peace and Goodwill approached, Lionel Pomfret was just able to hobble the length of the terrace with the assistance of a pair of crutches. His campaigning days were over. It was doubtful whether he would be seen again in the hunting-field. But high spirits remained inalienably his. He plunged with renewed ardour into schemes for the more intensive culture of a thin soil, and displayed remarkable aptitudes fortified by hard grinding at text-books. Hamlin spent many hours with him. In Lionel he seemed to see a type, the son of an ancient house, born with the silver spoon in his mouth, cradled in ease and luxury, popped on a pony to ride through life as soon as he was short-coated, sent to a great public-school, not to acquire learning, but manners and skill at games, pitchforked later into a famous regiment, with a handsome allowance, not to study the stern arts of war, but to hold his own at polo and pig-sticking. Hamlin had deplored such upbringing. But the results confounded him, forcing him once again to thrust carefully-considered judgments into the melting-pot. The fact bristled in front of him that Lionel, and thousands like him, had "made good" against all odds, vindicating an education which consistently disdained efficiency except at games and sport. What a gulf yawned between Prussian and English officers! The Prussians had scrapped everything to attain efficiency. They had got it. And what an atrocious use had been made of it! But their efficiency had constrained young men like Lionel to an efficiency greater because the inspiration of a fine cause lay behind it. That must be the keystone of any arch--inspiration. Whether for good or evil, it fired men to supreme endeavour. Out of Hamlin's four sons, three were now in the Army. Teddy, however, was the only one in France. The eldest son, in Orders, was still at Cambridge; the second, after passing through the O. T. C., had sailed for Salonika; the third had enlisted as a Bombardier. Christmas, therefore, seemed likely to be happy, if not merry. Upon Christmas Eve, Mrs. Yellam heard, officially, that Alfred was wounded. Upon Christmas Day, at Morning Service, her pew was empty. CHAPTER XIII FANCY CONSULTS THE CARDS On the following Sunday, Mrs. Yellam's pew was empty again, conspicuously so, in the eyes of Hamlin. After luncheon he said to Fancy: "Is Mrs. Yellam ill?" "No, sir." Hamlin guessed what had happened. "No news is good news, Fancy." "That's what the men say, sir. It ain't a mort of comfort to us women." She looked very white, with dark, heavy lines beneath her eyes. Hamlin said a few encouraging words to which she listened attentively, nodding her head. Hamlin felt reassured. Fancy was unhappy, but she didn't despair. Before she left the study, she said slowly: "I believe as Alfred will come back." To the solicitude and sympathy of neighbours Mrs. Yellam exhibited a frigid indifference.