"I forgot," he muttered. "You're not used to it. War ain't beautiful as seen in the after-glow."
"It's the quiet," whispered Kit, ghastly. "Like a churchyard—the dead unburied."
"Shut your eyes," said the Parson in steadying voice. "Take my arm. Don't think. Repeat a hymn to yourself."
He walked delicately among the dead, Kit stumbling on his arm.
At the garden-gate they stayed.
The Parson hailed, and Kit started dreadfully.
A wood-pigeon with loud wings splashed out of the sycamores. The kitchen clock within ticked. Other answer there was none.
"I must try the door," whispered the Parson. "Will you come?—or stop here?"
"Come."
The Parson walked down the tiny path between trampled beds, Kit shivering on his arm, and Polly leading him.