"Oh, I’m past gibes, sir. Elizabeth, alone of you all—she understands me. We have long ears and long wits, she and I. Believe me, we are wise." They came at last to their own country, and the Knaresborough men wondered why jest and high spirits ceased among the Riding Metcalfs. They did not guess how rooted in the homeland were the affections of these men who had gone abroad to play their part in the big issue of King and Parliament. They could not divine the mist of tenderness and yearning that veiled their eyes as they saw the slopes of Yoredale run to meet their eager gallop. Wounds, havoc of battlefields that had seen brave hopes lost, all were forgotten. They were back among the greening corn again. The Squire lost courage, for the first time since the riding out, when he reached the gate of his own homestead and saw his wife run forward in answer to the rousing challenge of "A Mecca for the King!" She came to his saddle, lifted up her face, as a bride might do for the nuptial kiss. She looked for Kit, the well-beloved, and for Michael. Then her glance ran to and fro among the company, seeking for remembered faces; and memory found many gaps. She faced her husband. There was accusation in her voice; for she had sat at home with weariness and fear and abnegation, and all her strength was gone. "Where are the rest?" she asked. "Serving the King, wife, wherever they be. I’ll go warrant for a Metcalf beyond the gates of this world." With a coldness that dismayed them, she counted her living Metcalfs. "A hundred and twenty rode out. Fifty and two return. The sunshine hurts me." "They did well—no man can do more." Those looking on saw courage struggle through her weakness, and in their hearts they knew that warfare had shown nothing finer. "I—I shall pray that this bitterness may go from me. I shall hope to tell them—oh, a little later on—that it is good to die for the King’s Majesty." They saw her waver, saw the old, indomitable pride return. "Metcalfs, well done—oh, well done! I am proud of my living—and my dead." "God rest their souls, wife. They have harvested their corn." As the weeks passed on, and grief and wounds alike were healing, a new disquiet stole in and out among the men quartered in Nappa’s hospitable house and outbuildings. They were idling here. If Marston Moor had killed the cause in the north, there was battle doing further south. The Squire’s wife watched it brewing, this new menace to all that was left of her happiness. She knew, that it was idle to resist or to persuade. She had bred men-sons for the King’s service, and must abide by it. Joan Grant was younger to experience. First-love was hindering her vision of what her man must do before he came to his kingdom; and she quarrelled openly with Christopher, as they came home together through the gloaming August fields.