e tree in the centre."

"Here's the path." The bank of grass where he had sat was broken by a
gap, through which chariots had entered, and farm carts entered now. The
track, following the ancient track, led straight through turnips to a
similar gap in the second circle, and thence continued, through more
turnips, to the central tree.

"Pang!" said the bell, as they paused at the entrance.

"You needn't unharness," shouted Mrs. Failing, for Stephen was
approaching the carriage.

"Yes, I will," he retorted.

"You will, will you?" she murmured with a smile. "I wish your brother
wasn't quite so uppish. Let's get on. Doesn't that church distract you?"

"It's so faint here," said Rickie. And it sounded fainter inside, though
the earthwork was neither thick nor tall; and the view, though not
hidden, was greatly diminished. He was reminded for a minute of that
chalk pit near Madingley, whose ramparts excluded the familiar world.
Agnes was here, as she had once been there. She stood on the farther
barrier, waiting to receive them when they had traversed the heart of
the camp.

"Admire my mangel-wurzels," said Mrs. Failing. "They are said to grow
so splendidly on account of the dead soldiers. Isn't it a sweet thought?
Need I say it is your brother's?"

"Wonham's?" he suggested. It was the second time that she had made the
little slip. She nodded, and he asked her what kind of ghosties haunted
this curious field.

"The D.," was her prompt reply. "He leans against the tree in the
middle, especially on Sunday afternoons and all the worshippers rise
through the turnips and dance round him."

"Oh, these were decent people," he replied, looking downwards--"soldiers
and shepherds. They have no ghosts. They worshipped Mars or Pan-Erda
perhaps; not the devil."

"Pang!" went the church, and was silent, for the afternoon service
had begun. They entered the second entrenchment, which was in height,
breadth, and composition, similar to the first, and excluded still more
of the view. His aunt continued friendly. Agnes stood watching them.

"Soldiers may seem decent in the past," she continued, "but wait till
they turn into Tommies from Bulford Camp, who rob the chickens."

"I don't mind Bulford Camp," said Rickie, looking, though in vain, for
signs of its snowy tents. "The men there are the sons of the men here,
and have come back to the old country. War's horrible, yet one loves all
continuity. And no one could mind a shepherd