The rumours of coming events crept more heavily and insistently than ever through a sudden spell of heat that hung over the Lakes.

Nelly Sarratt slept little, and wrote every day to her George, letters of which long sections were often destroyed when written, condemned for lack of cheerfulness.
She was much touched by Farrell's constant kindness, and grateful for it; especially because it seemed to keep Bridget in a good temper.

She was grateful too for the visitors whom a hint from him would send on fine afternoons to call on the ladies at Rydal--convalescent officers, to whom the drive from Carton, and tea with 'the pretty Mrs.Sarratt' were an attraction, while Nelly would hang breathless on their gossip of the war, until suddenly, perhaps, she would turn white and silent, lying back in her garden chair with the look which the men talking to her--brave, kind-hearted fellows--soon learnt to understand.

Marsworth came occasionally, and Nelly grew to like him sincerely, and to be vaguely sorry for him, she hardly knew why.

Cicely Farrell apparently forgot them entirely.