Then once more on to
the downs. The evening shadows are stretching across the valleys, but on
these spacious heights the sunshine still rests. Some one starts singing
that jolly old song, "The Farmer's Boy," and soon the air resounds to the
chorus:
"To plough and sow, to reap and mow,
And be a farmer's boy-o-o-o-oy,
And be a farmer's boy."
No one recalls the throbbing of the guns or stops to catch it from amidst
the murmurs of the air. This--this is the reality. That was only an echo
from a bad dream from which we have awakened.
And when an hour or two later we reach the little village by the sea we
rush for the letters that await us with eager curiosity. There is silence
in the room as each of us devours the budget of news awaiting us. I am
vaguely conscious as I read that some one has left the room with a sense of
haste. I go up to my bedroom, and when I return the sitting-room is empty
save for one figure. I see at a glance that something has happened.
"Robert has been killed in battle," he says.
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