So he told his story. After his discharge from the Army he had looked about for a job and found one at the mills in Wellingsford, where he had met the woman, a mill-hand, older than himself, whom he had married. She had been a bit extravagant and fond of her glass, but when he left her to rejoin the regiment, he had had no anxieties. She did not write often, not being very well educated and finding difficult the composition of letters. A machine gun bullet had gone through his chest, just missing his lung. He had been two months in hospital. He had written to her announcing his arrival. She had not met him at the station. He had tramped home with his kit-bag on his back--and the cracked head was his reception. He supposed she had had a lot of easy money and had given way to temptation--and---- "And what's a man to do, sir?" "I'm sure I don't know, Corporal," said I. "It's damned hard lines on you. But, at any rate, you can look upon this as your home for as long as you like to stay." "Thank you kindly, sir," said he. I turned and beckoned to Betty and Marigold, who had been hovering out of earshot by the house door. They approached. "I want to have a word with Marigold," I said. Tufton saluted and went off with Betty. Sergeant Marigold stood stiff as a ramrod on the spot which Tufton had occupied. "I suppose Mrs. Connor," said I, "has told you all about this poor chap?" "Yes, sir," said Marigold. "We must put him up comfortably. That's quite simple. The only thing that worries me is this--supposing his wife comes around here raising Cain--?" Marigold held me with his one glittering eye--an eye glittering with the pride of the gunner and the pride (more chastened) of the husband. "You can leave all that, sir, to Mrs. Marigold. If she isn't more than a match for any Grenadier Guardsman's wife, then I haven't been married to her for the last twenty years." Nothing more was to be said. Marigold marched the man off, leaving me alone with Betty. "I'm going to get in before Mrs. Marigold," she remarked, with a smile. "I'm off now to interview Madam Tufton and bring back her husband's kit." In some ways it is a pity Betty isn't a man. She would make a splendid soldier. I don't think such a thing as fear, physical, moral, or spiritual, lurks in any recess of Betty's nature. Not every young woman would brave, without trepidation, a virago who had cracked a hard-bitten warrior's head with a poker. "Marigold and I will come with you," I said. She protested. It was nonsense. Suppose Mrs. Tufton went for Marigold and spoiled his beauty? No. It was too dangerous. No place for men. We argued. At last I blew the police-whistle which I wear on the end of my watch-chain. Marigold came hurrying out of the house. "Mrs. Connor is going to take us for a run," said I. "Very good, sir." "Your blood be on your own heads," said Betty.