'We can do it when they're settin' there—afore us,' she said, 'but not when we're by our lone.'
Nelly nodded.
'It's the nights that are worst—' she murmured, under her breath—'because it's then they're fighting—when we're in bed—sleeping.'
'My boy was killed between one and two in the morning '—whispered Mrs. Grayson. 'I heard from one of his friends this morning. He says it was a lovely night, and the daylight just comin' up. I think of it when I'm layin' awake and hearing the birds beginning.'
There was silence again, till Mrs. Grayson said, suddenly, with a strange passion:—
'But I'd rather be Jim's mother, and be settin' here without him, than
I'd be the mother o'yan of them young fellows as is just gone!'
'Yes,' said Nelly slowly—'yes. If we think too much about keeping them safe—just for ourselves—If; they despise—they would despise us. And if anyone hangs back, we despise them. It' a horrible puzzle.'
'We can pray for them,' said Mrs. Grayson simply. 'God can keep them safe if it's His will.'
'Yes '—said Nelly again. But her tone was flat and hesitating. Her ever-present fear was very little comforted by prayer. But she found comfort in Mrs. Grayson. She liked to stay on in the old kitchen, watching Mrs. Grayson's household ways, making friends with the stolid tabby cat, or listening to stories of Jim as a child. Sometimes she would read parts of George's letters to this new friend. Bridget never cared to hear them; and she was more completely at ease with the farmer's wife even than with Hester Martin.
But she could not linger this afternoon. Her news might come any time. And Sir William had telephoned that morning to say that he and his sister would call on their way from Windermere, and would ask for a cup of tea. Marsworth would probably meet them at Rydal.