about her work. There was no attempt to make light of it. She didn't define it in terms of sacrifice.
"I'm sorry I missed you this morning," she said in her casual, educated voice, absurdly at variance with her occupation. But, you see, I must be at work by six, so I leave home at five. I carry my luncheon in a basket, and it's jolly good at noon, even in solitude."
"When do you get home?” I gasped.
"Usually in time for a late dinner. You know I must cover this field to-night, or I'll have no dinner at all."
We watched her as she called to her horses and strode gracefully away.
“That's her life," her father reflected," and, on the whole, I fancy it's better for her than teas and dances and the things girls used to do. She loves horses, so she's capable."
"But why." I began.
Don't you understand? ?" he said. She releases one man more to go to war."
An aeroplane whirred across the downs towards France. The wounded soldiers welcomed us back to the automobile. I gazed at their bandages and crutches.
Certainly the plough girl was democratic. Yet, you couldn't help thinking, it was a pity her devo-
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