bour, and
lie in hammocks in the little orchard, and rejoice in every moment of
the long sunshiny days. Down at the bottom of our hearts, I think we
both have a feeling that this is just a little rest by the way. It
won't last; we don't even wish it to last. Life is too strenuous to
pass in a summer garden; but we needed a rest and it is very, very good
for a change. We pack boxes of flowers and send them to the hospitals,
and every Saturday afternoon we invite parties of working girls from the
nearest towns. They arrive in weird garments, very loud as to colour,
and befeathered as to hats, and the village worthies look askance at
them, shrug their shoulders, and think small beer of us for entertaining
such odd guests.

For three months our lives have been indeed the "annals of a quiet
neighbourhood," and then suddenly, last week, something happened!

I said suddenly--I might have said instantaneously, without any
exaggeration. The position was this. Scene, a sloping roadway just
outside the village area. The stage set with the three principal
figures. Enter from left wing, General Underwood, reclining in his
bath-chair, being taken for a short ride by his affectionate kinsman,
Robert Maplestone. Enter from right wing, Evelyn Wastneys, bearing for
home. So far, so good. A similar encounter has happened many times
before, but this time the sight of my white-robed figure seemed to upset
the Squire's equanimity. He stopped the chair, and turned his head over
his shoulder, looking backward over the road along which he had come.
It afterwards transpired that the General's valet had been left behind
to finish some small duty, and was momentarily expected to follow. At
that moment he did appear, and involuntarily Mr Maplestone lifted his
hands to wave an imperious summons.

I have said that the road is sloping; just at this point it is very
sloping indeed, therefore the bath-chair darted forward, and spun
downward with incredible speed. I have a kaleidoscopic picture in my
brain which seems to consist of a lot of waving arms--the poor General's
arms waving for help, the Squire's arms sawing the air as he raced in
pursuit, further back in the road the valet's arms thrown to the sky in
an agony of dismay, while down towards me, ever faster and faster, spun
that runaway chair.

I had to stop it somehow! There was no one else to do it, so it was "up
to me" to do my best. There was no time to be nervous, no tim