* * * * *

The farm was a family property, and passed to the rabbit-shooting cousin
as the next-of-kin. Emma Ladbruk drifted out of its history as a bee
that had wandered in at an open window might flit its way out again. On
a cold grey morning she stood waiting, with her boxes already stowed in
the farm cart, till the last of the market produce should be ready, for
the train she was to catch was of less importance than the chickens and
butter and eggs that were to be offered for sale. From where she stood
she could see an angle of the long latticed window that was to have been
cosy with curtains and gay with bowls of flowers. Into her mind came the
thought that for months, perhaps for years, long after she had been
utterly forgotten, a white, unheeding face would be seen peering out
through those latticed panes, and a weak muttering voice would be heard
quavering up and down those flagged passages. She made her way to a
narrow barred casement that opened into the farm larder. Old Martha was
standing at a table trussing a pair of chickens for the market stall as
she had trussed them for nearly fourscore years.




THE LULL


"I've asked Latimer Springfield to spend Sunday with us and stop the
night," announced Mrs. Durmot at the breakfast-table.

"I thought he was in the throes of an election," remarked her husband.