Christian Evans, had seized upon a surviving old cottage at the end of the avenue, and, indeed, of Inkston village itself. Beyond it stretched meadows, while the road, turning again, ran across an open heath, and pursued its way to Sprotsfield, four miles distant, a place of greater size where all amenities could be found.     

       It was along this road that the friends now walked, Mary setting a brisk pace. “When once you’ve turned your back on the Avenue, it’s heaps better,” she said. “Might be real country, looking this way, mightn’t it? Except the Naylors’ place—Oh, and Tower Cottage—there are no houses between this and Sprotsfield.”     

       The wind blew shrewdly, with an occasional spatter of rain; the withered bracken lay like a vast carpet of dull copper-color under the cloudy sky; scattered fir-trees made fantastic shapes in the early gloom of a December day. A somber scene, yet wanting only sunshine to make it flash in a richness of color; even to-day its quiet and spaciousness, its melancholy and monotony, seemed to bid a sympathetic and soothing welcome to aching and fretted hearts.     

       “It really is rather nice out here,” Cynthia admitted.     

       “I come almost every afternoon. Oh, I’ve plenty of time! My round in the morning generally sees me through—except for emergencies, births and deaths, and so on. You see, my predecessor, poor Christian Evans, never had more than the leavings, and that’s all I’ve got. I believe the real doctor, the old-established one, Dr. Irechester, was angry at first with Dr. Evans for coming; he didn’t want a rival. But Christian was such a meek, mild, simple little Welshman, not the least pushing or ambitious; and very soon Dr. Irechester, who’s quite well off, was glad to leave him the dirty work, I mean (she explained, smiling) the cottages, and the panel work, National Insurance, you know, and so on. Well, as you know, I came down as locum for Christian, he was a fellow-student of mine, and when the dear little man was killed in France, Dr. Irechester himself suggested that I should stay on. He was rather nice. He said, ‘We all started to laugh at you, at first, but we don’t laugh now, anyhow, only my wife does! So, if you stay on, I don’t doubt we shall work very well together, my dear colleague,’ Wasn’t that rather nice of him, Cynthia?”     

       “Yes, dear,” said 

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