g bushes, and my soul
felt strangely quieted. In its peace, in its cessation from labour,
there was neither anxiety nor sadness, there remained rest, placid and
sad. It seemed as if the houses, all intact at this particular spot,
held something sacred and restful, that with them and in them all was
good. They knew no evil or sorrow. There was peace, the desired
consummation of all things--peace brought about by war, the peace of
the desert, and death.

I looked at the first grave, its cross, and the rude lettering. This
was the epitaph; this and nothing more:--

"An Unknown British Soldier."

On a grave adjoining was a cheap gilt vase with flowers, English flowers,
faded and dying. I looked at the cross. One of the Coldstream Guards lay
there killed in action six weeks before. I turned up the black-edged
envelope on the vase, and read the badly spelt message, "From his (p. 107)
broken-hearted wife and loving little son Tommy."

We gazed at it for a moment in silence. Then Pryor spoke. "I think
we'll go back," he said, and there was a strained note in his voice;
it seemed as if he wanted to hide something.

On our way out to the road we stopped for a moment and gazed through
the shattered window of Dead Cow Cottage. The room into which we
looked was neatly furnished. A round table with a flower vase on it
stood on the floor, a number of chairs in their proper position were
near the wall, a clock and two photos, one of an elderly man with a
heavy beard, the other of a frail, delicate woman, were on the
mantlepiece. The pendulum of the clock hung idle; it must have
ceased going for quite a long time. As if to heighten a picture of
absolute comfort a cat sat on the floor washing itself.

"Where will the people be?" I asked.

"I don't know," answered Pryor. "Those chairs will be useful in our
dug-out. Shall we take them?"

We took one apiece, and with chair on our head and jar in hand we (p. 108)
walked towards the trenches. The sun was out, and it was now very hot.
We sweated. My face became like a wet sponge squeezed in the hand;
Pryor's face was very red.

"We'll have a rest," he said, and laying down the jar he placed his
chair in the road and sat on it. I did the same.

"You know Omar?" he asked.

"In my calf-age I doated on him," I answered.

"What's the calf-age?"

"The sentimental period that most young fellows go through," I said.
"They then make sonnets to the moon, become pessimistic, criticis