alley, but here the wide plain
was sunlit and the air was fresh and dry: in the valley even the
river-aspens were almost quiet, but here there was still a sough
of wind coming and going, through the dry grass thick set with
lemon thyme and lady's slipper, or along the low garden wall
where red valerian sprouted out of yellow stonecrop.

A wishing gate led into the garden, and Isabel made for an open
window, but halfway over the sill she paused, gazing with all her
soul in her eyes across the vicarage gooseberry bushes. That
grey suit was Val's of course, but who was inside the belted coat
and riding breeches? "Rows-lee!" sang out Isabel, tumbling back
into the garden with a generous display of leg. The raiders rose
up each holding a handful of large red strawberries melting ripe,
and Isabel, pitching in her racquet on a sofa, ran across the
grass and enfolded her brother in her arms. Rowsley, dark and
slight and shrewd, returned her hug with one arm, while carefully
guarding his strawberries with the other--"You pig, you perfect
pig!" wailed Isabel. "I was saving them for tea tomorrow,
Laura's coming and I can't afford a cake. Oh joy, you can buy me
one! How long can you stay?"

"Over the week end: but I didn't come to buy you cakes, Baby. I
haven't any money either. I came because I wanted you to buy me
cakes."

"O well never mind, I'll make one," Isabel joyously slipped her
hand through Rowsley's arm. "Then I can get the flour from the
baker and it won't cost anything at all--it'll go down in the
bill. Well give me one anyhow, now they're picked it would be a
pity to waste them." She helped herself liberally out of Val's
hand. "Now stop both of you, you can't have any more."

She linked her other arm in Val's and dragged her brothers out of
the dangerous proximity of the strawberry beds. Val sat down on
a deck chair, one leg thrown over the other, Rowsley dropped at
full length on the turf, and Isabel doubled herself up between
them, her arms clasped round her knees. "How's the Old Man?" she
asked in friendly reference to Rowsley's commanding officer.
"Oh Rose, I knew there was something I wanted to ask you. Will
Spillsby be able to play on the Fourth?" Spillsby, a brother
subaltern and a famous bat, had twisted his ankle at the nets,
and Rowsley in his last letter had been uncertain whether he
would be well enough to play the Sappers at the annual fixture.

Happily Rowsley was able to reassure his