Anne Severn and the Fieldings. Sinclair May

and snapped at everybody. It seemed odd that Jerrold should be frightened.

      A minute ago he had been happy, rolling over and over on the grass, shouting with laughter while Sandy, the Aberdeen, jumped on him, growling his merry puppy's growl and biting the balled fists that pushed him off.

      They were all out on the lawn. Anne waited for Jerry to get up and take her into Wyck, to buy chocolates.

      Every time Jerrold laughed his mother laughed too, a throaty, girlish giggle.

      "I love Jerry's laugh," she said. "It's the nicest noise he makes."

      Then, suddenly, she stopped it. She stopped it with a word.

      "If you're going into Wyck, Jerry, you might tell Yearp——"

      Yearp.

      He got up. His face was very red. He looked mournful and frightened too.

       Yes, frightened.

      "I—can't, Mother."

      "You can perfectly well. Tell Yearp to come and look at Pussy's ears, I think she's got canker."

      "She hasn't," said Jerry defiantly.

      "She jolly well has," said Eliot.

      "Rot."

      "You only say that because you don't like to think she's got it."

      "Eliot can go himself. He's fond of Yearp."

      "You'll do as you're told, Jerry. It's downright cowardice."

      "It isn't cowardice, is it, Daddy?"

      "Well," said his father, "it isn't exactly courage."

      "Whatever it is," his mother said, "you'll have to get over it. You go on as if nobody cared about poor Binky but yourself."

      Binky was Jerry's dog. He had run into a motor-bicycle in the Easter holidays and hurt his back, so that Yearp, the vet, had had to come and give him chloroform. That was why Jerrold was afraid of Yearp. When he saw him he saw Binky with his nose in the cup of chloroform; he heard him snorting out his last breath. And he couldn't bear it.

      "I could send one of the men," his father was saying.

      "Don't encourage him, Robert. He's got to face it."

      "Yes, Jerrold, you'd better go and get it over. You can't go on funking it for ever."

      Jerrold went. But he went alone, he wouldn't let Anne go with him. He said he didn't want her to be mixed up with it.

      "He means," said Eliot, "that he doesn't want to think of Yearp every time he sees Anne."

      ix

      It was true that Eliot was fond of Yearp's society. He would spend hours with him, learning how to dissect frogs and rabbits and pigeons. He drove about the country with Yearp seeing the sick animals, the ewes at lambing time and the cows at their calving. And he spent half the midsummer holidays reading Animal Biology and drawing diagrams of frogs' hearts and pigeons' brains. He said he wasn't going to Oxford or Cambridge when he left Cheltenham; he was going to Barts. He wanted to be a doctor. But his mother said he didn't know what he'd want to be in three years' time. She thought him awful, with his frogs' hearts and horrors.

      Next to Jerrold and little Colin Anne loved Eliot. He seemed to know when she was thinking about her mother and to understand. He took her into the woods to look for squirrels; he showed her the wildflowers and told her all their names: bugloss, and lady's smock and speedwell, king-cup, willow herb and meadow sweet, crane's bill and celandine.

      One day they found in the garden a tiny egg-shaped shell made of gold-coloured lattice work. When they put it under the microscope they saw inside it a thing like a green egg. Every day they watched it; it put out two green horns, and a ridge grew down the middle of it, and one morning they found the golden shell broken. A long, elegant fly with slender wings crawled beside it.

      When Benjy died of eating too much lettuce Eliot was sorry. Aunt Adeline said it was all put on and that he really wanted to cut him up and see what he was made of. But Eliot didn't. He said Benjy was sacred. That was because he knew they loved him. And he dug the grave and lined it with moss and told Aunt Adeline to shut up when she said it ought to have been lettuce leaves.

      Aunt Adeline complained that it was hard that Eliot couldn't be nice to her when he was her favorite.

      "Little Anne, little Anne, what have you done to my Eliot?" She was always saying things like that. Anne couldn't think what she meant till Jerrold told her she was the only kid that Eliot had ever looked at. The big Hawtrey girl from Medlicote would have given her head to be in Anne's shoes.

      But Anne didn't care. Her love for Jerrold was sharp and exciting. She brought tears to it and temper. It was mixed up with God and music and the deaths of animals, and sunsets and all sorrowful and beautiful and mysterious things. Thinking about her mother made her think about Jerrold; but she never thought about Eliot at all when he wasn't there.

      She would run away from Eliot any minute if she heard Jerrold calling.

       It was Jerrold, Jerrold, all the time, said Aunt Adeline.

      And when Eliot was busy with his microscope and Jerrold had turned from her to Colin, there was Uncle Robert. He seemed to know the moments when she wanted him. Then he would take her out riding with him over the estate that stretched from Wyck across the valley of the Speed and beyond it for miles over the hills. And he would show her the reaping machines at work, and the great carthorses, and the prize bullocks in their stalls at the Manor Farm. And Anne told him her secret, the secret she had told to nobody but Jerrold.

      "Some day," she said, "I shall have a farm, with horses and cows and pigs and little calves."

      "Shall you like that?"

      "Yes," said Anne. "I would. Only it can't happen till Grandpapa's dead.

       And I don't want him to die."

      x

      They were saying now that Colin was wonderful. He was only seven, yet he could play the piano like a grown-up person, very fast and with loud noises in the bass. And he could sing like an angel. When you heard him you could hardly believe that he was a little boy who cried sometimes and was afraid of ghosts. Two masters came out from Cheltenham twice a week to teach him. Eliot said Colin would be a professional when he grew up, but his mother said he should be nothing of the sort and Eliot wasn't to go putting nonsense like that into his head. Still, she was proud of Colin when his hands went pounding and flashing over the keys. Anne had to give up practising because she did it so badly that it hurt Colin to hear her.

      He wasn't in the least conceited about his playing, not even when Jerrold stood beside him and looked on and said, "Clever Col-Col. Isn't he a wonderful kid? Look at him. Look at his little hands, all over the place."

      He didn't think playing was wonderful. He thought the things that Jerrold did were wonderful. With his child's legs and arms he tried to do the things that Jerrold did. They told him he would have to wait nine years before he could do them. He was always talking about what he would do in nine years' time.

      And there was the day of the walk to High Slaughter, through the valley of the Speed to the valley of the Windlode, five miles there and back. Eliot and Jerrold and Anne had tried to sneak out when Colin wasn't looking; but he had seen them and came running after them down the field, calling to them to let him come. Eliot shouted "We can't, Col-Col, it's too far," but Colin looked so pathetic, standing there in the big field, that Jerrold couldn't bear it.

      "I think," he said, "we might let him come."

      "Yes. Let him," Anne said.

      "Rot. He can't walk it."

      "I can," said Colin. "I can."

      "I tell you he can't. If he's tired he'll be sick in the night and then he'll say it's ghosts."

      Colin's mouth trembled.

      "It's