"There's been a lot of firing this morning down by the river."
"But, Lettice, you don't think—"
Lettice did not say she thought anything. She stuck her needle in her stocking and prepared to get up. She stood a moment shading her eyes, piercing the depths of the pine wood with her far-searching look, and then got under way to descend the hill. Dorothea seized her hand.
"Oh, don't, Lettice—it's sure to be some deserter, you know there are heaps, and you haven't even got your big scissors!"
"I am going to see if there are any mushrooms on the hill by the crucifix," said Lettice in the softly distinct tones which admitted no discussion.
"Well, wait half-a-minute for me, then!"
Lettice did not wait; when Dorothea came running out of the house with the carving-knife tucked inside her blouse, she was already at the white bridge over the brook. Dorothea overtook her half-way across the stubble field. She was making better time up the hill than ever she had before.
"Oh, darling Lettice, don't, don't go! Let me—it doesn't matter about me, I can take care of myself, and I don't mind things, but you know what it was to you last time! Lettice darling—please!"
Lettice shook off her hand. "I saw him again just now," she said. "He was wearing those leather overall things."