said the labourer.

“He’s not dea-ed, he’s not dea-ed,” came the passionate, strange sing-song of the foreign girl. “He’s not dead — no-o.”

“He wants some brandy — look at the colour of his lips,” said the crisp, cold voice of Henry. “Can you fetch some?”

“Wha-at? Fetch?” Fr�ulein did not understand.

“Brandy,” said Henry, very distinct.

“Brrandy!” she re-echoed.

“You go, Bill,” groaned the father.

“Aye, I’ll go,” replied Bill, and he ran across the field.