robbed of fifteen years' labour: the weapon that his heart and brain had
made keen wrested from his hand by a legal process, and turned against
the very principles for which all his life he had been fighting.

"I'm almost more sorry for myself than for him," said Mary, making a
whimsical grimace.  "He will start something else, so soon as he's got
over his first soreness; but I'm too old to dream of another child."

He came in a little later and, seating himself between them, filled and
lighted his pipe.  Looking back, Joan remembered that curiously none of
them had spoken.  Mary had turned at the sound of his key in the door.
She seemed to be watching him intently; but it was too dark to notice her
expression.  He pulled at his pipe till it was well alight and then
removed it.

"It's war," he said.

The words made no immediate impression upon Joan.  There had been
rumours, threatenings and alarms, newspaper talk.  But so there had been
before.  It would come one day: the world war that one felt was gathering
in the air; that would burst like a second deluge on the nations.  But it
would not be in our time: it was too big.  A way out would be found.

"Is there no hope?" asked Mary.

"Yes," he answered.  "The hope that a miracle may happen.  The Navy's got
its orders."

And suddenly--as years before in a Paris music hall--there leapt to life
within Joan's brain a little impish creature that took possession of her.
She hoped the miracle would not happen.  The little impish creature
within her brain was marching up and down beating a drum.  She wished he
would stop a minute.  Someone was trying to talk to her, telling her she
ought to be tremendously shocked and grieved.  He--or she, or whatever it
was that was trying to talk to her, appeared concerned about Reason and
Pity and Universal Brotherhood and Civilization's clock--things like
that.  But the little impish drummer was making such a din, she couldn't
properly hear.  Later on, perhaps, he would get tired; and then she would
be able to listen to this humane and sensible person, whoever it might
be.

Mary argued that England could and should keep out of it; but Greyson was
convinced it would be impossible, not to say dishonourable: a sentiment
that won the enthusiastic approval of the little drummer in Joan's brain.
He played "Rule Britannia" and "God Save the King," the "Marseillaise"
and the Russian National hymn, all at the same time.  He would have
included "Deutschland uber Alles," if Joan hadn't made a supreme effort
and stopped him.  Evidently a sporting little devil.  He took himself off
into a corner after a time, where he played quietly to himself; and Joan
was able to join in the conversation.

Greyson spoke with an enthusiasm that was unusual to him.  So many of our
wars had been mean wars--wars for the wrong; sordid wars for territory,
for gold mines; wars against the weak at the bidding of our traders, our
financiers.  "Shouldering the white man's burden," we called it.  Wars
for the right of selling opium; wars to perpetuate the vile rule of the
Turk because it happened to serve our commercial interests.  This time,
we were out to play the knight; to save the smaller peoples; to rescue
our once "sweet enemy," fair France.  Russia was the disturbing thought.
It somewhat discounted the knight-errant idea, riding stirrup to stirrup
beside that barbarian horseman.  But there were possibilities about
Russia.  Idealism lay hid within that sleeping brain.  It would be a holy
war for the Kingdom of the Peoples.  With Germany freed from the monster
of blood and iron that was crushing out her soul, with Russia awakened to
life, we would build the United States of Europe.  Even his voice was
changed.  Joan could almost fancy it was some excited schoolboy that was
talking.

Mary had been clasping and unclasping her hands, a habit of hers when
troubled.  Could good ever come out of evil?  That was her doubt.  Did
war ever do anything but sow the seeds of future violence; substitute one
injustice for another; change wrong for wrong.  Did it ever do anything
but add to the world's sum of evil, making God's task the heavier?

Suddenly, while speaking, she fell into a passionate fit of weeping.  She
went on through her tears:

"It will be terrible," she said.  "It will last longer than you say.
Every nation will be drawn into it.  There will be no voice left to speak
for reason.  Every day we shall grow more brutalized, more pitiless.  It
will degrade us, crush the soul out of us.  Blood and iron!  It will
become our God too: the God of all the world.  You say we are going into
it with clean hands, this time.  How long will they keep clean?  The
people who only live for making money: how long do you think they will
remain silent?  What has been all the talk of the last ten years but of
capturing German trade.  We shall be told that we owe it to our dead to
make a profit out of them; that otherwise they will have died in vain.
Who will care for the people but to use them for killing one another--to
hound them on like dogs.  In every country nothing but greed and hatred
will be preached.  Horrible men and women will write to the papers crying
out for more blood, more cruelty.  Everything that can make for anger and
revenge will be screamed from every newspaper.  Every plea for humanity
will be jeered at as 'sickly sentimentality.'  Every man and woman who
remembers the ideals with which we started will be shrieked at as a
traitor.  The people who are doing well out of it, they will get hold of
the Press, appeal to the passions of the mob.  Nobody else will be
allowed to speak.  It always has been so in war.  It always will be.  This
will be no exception merely because it's bigger.  Every country will be
given over to savagery.  There will be no appeal against it.  The whole
world will sink back into the beast."

She ended by rising abruptly and wishing them good-night.  Her outburst
had silenced Joan's impish drummer, for the time.  He appeared to be
nervous and depressed, but bucked up again on the way to the bus.  Greyson
walked with her as usual.  They took the long way round by the outer
circle.

"Poor Mary!" he said.  "I should not have talked before her if I had
thought.  Her horror of war is almost physical.  She will not even read
about them.  It has the same effect upon her as stories of cruelty."

"But there's truth in a good deal that she says," he added.  "War can
bring out all that is best in a people; but also it brings out the worst.
We shall have to take care that the ideals are not lost sight of."

"I wish this wretched business of the paper hadn't come just at this
time," said Joan: "just when your voice is most needed.

"Couldn't you get enough money together to start something quickly," she
continued, the idea suddenly coming to her.  "I think I could help you.
It wouldn't matter its being something small to begin with.  So long as
it was entirely your own, and couldn't be taken away from you.  You'd
soon work it up."

"Thanks," he answered.  "I may ask you to later on.  But just now--"  He
paused.

Of course.  For war you wanted men, to fight.  She had been thinking of
them in the lump: hurrying masses such as one sees on cinema screens,
blurred but picturesque.  Of course, when you came to think of it, they
would have to be made up of individuals--gallant-hearted, boyish sort of
men who would pass through doors, one at a time, into little rooms; give
their name and address to a soldier man seated at a big deal table.  Later
on, one would say good-bye to them on crowded platforms, wave a
handkerchief.  Not all of them would come back.  "You can't make
omelettes without breaking eggs," she told herself.

It annoyed her, that silly saying having come into her mind.  She could
see them lying there, with their white faces to the night.  Surely she
might have thought of some remark less idiotic to make to herself, at
such a time.

He was explaining to her things about the air service.  It seemed he had
had experience in flying--some relation of his with whom he had spent a
holiday last summer.

It would mean his getting out quickly.  He seemed quite eager to be gone.

"Isn't it rather dangerous work?" she asked.  She felt it was a footling
question even as she asked it.  Her brain had become stodgy.

"Nothing like as dangerous as being in the Infantry," he answered.  "And
that would be my only other alternative.  Besides I get out of the
drilling."  He laughed.  "I should hate being shouted at and ordered
about by a husky old sergeant."

They neither spoke again till they came to the bridge, from the other
side of which the busses started.

"I may not see you again before I go," he said.  "Look after Mary.  I
shall try to persuade her to go down to her aunt in Hampshire.  It's
rather a bit of luck, as it turns out, the paper being finished with.  I
shouldn't have quite known what to do."

He had stopped at the corner.  They were still beneath the shadow of the
trees.  Quite unconsciously she put her face up; and as if it had always
been the custom at their partings, he drew her to him and kissed her;
though it really was for the first time.

She walked home instead of taking the bus.  She wanted to think.  A day
or two would decide the question.  She determined that if the miracle did
not happen, she would go down to Liverpool.  Her father was on the
committee of one of the great hospitals; and she knew one or two of the
matrons.  She would want to be doing something--to get out to the front,
if possible.  Maybe, her desire to serve was not altogether free from
curiosity--from the craving for adventure.  There's a spice of the man
even in the best of women.

Her conscience plagued her when she thought of Mrs. Denton.  For some
time now, they had been very close together; and the old lady had come to
depend upon her.  She waited till all doubt was ended before calling to
say good-bye.  Mrs. Denton was seated before an old bureau that had long
stood locked in a corner of the library.  The drawers were open and books
and papers were scattered about.

Joan told her plans.  "You'll be able to get along without me for a
little while?" she asked doubtfully.

Mrs. Denton laughed.  "I haven't much more to do," she answered.  "Just
tidying up, as you see; and two or three half-finished things I shall try
to complete.  After that, I'll perhaps take a rest."

She took from among the litter a faded photograph and handed it to Joan.
"Odd," she said.  "I've just turned it out."

It represented a long, thin line of eminently respectable ladies and
gentlemen in early Victorian costume.  The men in peg-top trousers and
silk stocks, the women in crinolines and poke bonnets.  Among them,
holding the hand of a benevolent-looking, stoutish gentleman, was a mere
girl.  The terminating frills of a white unmentionable garment showed
beneath her skirts.  She wore a porkpie hat with a feather in it.

"My first public appearance," explained Mrs. Denton.  "I teased my father
into taking me with him.  We represented Great Britain and Ireland.  I
suppose I'm the only one left."

"I shouldn't have recognized you," laughed Joan.  "What was the
occasion?"

"The great International Peace Congress at Paris," explained Mrs. Denton;
"just after the Crimean war.  It made quite a stir at the time.  The
Emperor opened our proceedings in person, and the Pope and the Archbishop
of Canterbury both sent us their blessing.  We had a copy of the speeches
presented to us on leaving, in every known language in Europe, bound in
vellum.  I'm hoping to find it.  And the Press was enthusiastic.  There
were to be Acts of Parliament, Courts of Arbitration, International Laws,
Diplomatic Treaties.  A Sub-Committee was appointed to prepare a special
set of prayers and a Palace of Peace was to be erected.  There was only
one thing we forgot, and that was the foundation."

"I may not be here," she continued, "when the new plans are submitted.
Tell them not to forget the foundation this time.  Tell them to teach the
children."

Joan dined at a popular restaurant that evening.  She fancied it might
cheer her up.  But the noisy patriotism of the over-fed crowd only
irritated her.  These elderly, flabby men, these fleshy women, who would
form the spectators, who would loll on their cushioned seats protected
from the sun, munching contentedly from their well-provided baskets while
listening to the dying groans rising upwards from the drenched arena.  She
glanced from one podgy thumb to another and a feeling of nausea crept
over her.

Suddenly the band struck up "God Save the King."  Three commonplace
enough young men, seated at a table near to her, laid down their napkins
and stood up.  Yes, there was something to be said for war, she felt, as
she looked at their boyish faces, transfigured.  Not for them Business as
usual, the Capture of German Trade.  Other visions those young eyes were
seeing.  The little imp within her brain had seized his drum again.
"Follow me"--so he seemed to beat--"I teach men courage, duty, the laying
down of self.  I open the gates of honour.  I make heroes out of dust.
Isn't it worth my price?"

A figure was loitering the other side of the street when she reached
home.  She thought she somehow recognized it, and crossed over.  It was
McKean, smoking his everlasting pipe.  Success having demanded some such
change, he had migrated to "The Albany," and she had not seen him for
some time.  He had come to have a last look at the house--in case it
might happen to be the last.  He was off to Scotland the next morning,
where he intended to "join up."

"But are you sure it's your particular duty?" suggested Joan.  "I'm told
you've become a household word both in Germany and France.  If we really
are out to end war and establish the brotherhood of nations, the work you
are doing is of more importance than even the killing of Germans.  It
isn't as if there wouldn't be enough without you."

"To tell the truth," he answered, "that's exactly what I've been saying
to myself.  I shan't be any good.  I don't see myself sticking a bayonet
into even a German.  Unless he happened to be abnormally clumsy.  I tried
to shoot a rabbit once.  I might have done it if the little beggar,
instead of running away, hadn't turned and looked at me."

"I should keep out of it if I were you," laughed Joan.

"I can't," he answered.  "I'm too great a coward."

"An odd reason for enlisting," thought Joan.

"I couldn't face it," he went on; "the way people would be looking at me
in trains and omnibuses; the things people would say of me, the things I
should imagine they were saying; what my valet would be thinking of me.
Oh, I'm ashamed enough of myself.  It's the artistic temperament, I
suppose.  We must always be admired, praised.  We're not the stuff that
martyrs are made of.  We must for ever be kow-towing to the cackling
geese around us.  We're so terrified lest they should hiss us."

The street was empty.  They were pacing it slowly, up and down.

"I've always been a coward," he continued.  "I fell in love with you the
first day I met you on the stairs.  But I dared not tell you."

"You didn't give me that impression," answered Joan.

She had always found it difficult to know when to take him seriously and
when not.

"I was so afraid you would find it out," he explained.

"You thought I would take advantage of it," she suggested.

"One can never be sure of a woman," he answered.  "And it would have been
so difficult.  There was a girl down in Scotland, one of the village
girls.  It wasn't anything really.  We had just been children together.
But they all thought I had gone away to make my fortune so as to come
back and marry her--even my mother.  It would have looked so mean if
after getting on I had married a fine London lady.  I could never have
gone home again."

"But you haven't married her--or have you?" asked Joan.

"No," he answered.  "She wrote me a beautiful letter that I shall always
keep, begging me to forgive her, and hoping I might be happy.  She had
married a young farmer, and was going out to Canada.  My mother will
never allow her name to be mentioned in our house."

They had reached the end of the street again.  Joan held out her hand
with a laugh.

"Thanks for the compliment," she said.  "Though I notice you wait till
you're going away before telling me."

"But quite seriously," she added, "give it a little more thought--the
enlisting, I mean.  The world isn't too rich in kind influences.  It
needs men like you.  Come, pull yourself together and show a little
pluck."  She laughed.

"I'll try," he promised, "but it won't be any use; I shall drift about
the streets, seeking to put heart into myself, but all the while my
footsteps will be bearing me nearer and nearer to the recruiting office;
and outside the door some girl in the crowd will smile approval or some
old fool will pat me on the shoulder and I shall sneak in and it will
close behind me.  It must be fine to have courage."

He wrote her two days later from Ayr, giving her the name of his
regiment, and again some six months later from Flanders.  But there would
have been no sense in her replying to that last.

She lingered in the street by herself, a little time, after he had turned
the corner.  It had been a house of sorrow and disappointment to her; but
so also she had dreamed her dreams there, seen her visions.  She had
never made much headway with her landlord and her landlady: a worthy
couple, who had proved most excellent servants, but who prided
themselves, to use their own expression, on knowing their place and
keeping themselves to themselves.  Joan had given them notice that
morning, and had been surprised at the woman's bursting into tears.

"I felt it just the same when young Mr. McKean left us," she explained
with apologies.  "He had been with us five years.  He was like you, miss,
so unpracticable.  I'd got used to looking after him."

Mary Greyson called on her in the morning, while she was still at
breakfast.  She had come from seeing Francis off by an early train from
Euston.  He had sent Joan a ring.

"He is so afraid you may not be able to wear it--that it will not fit
you," said Mary, "but I told him I was sure it would."

Joan held our her hand for the letter.  "I was afraid he had forgotten
it," she answered, with a smile.

She placed the ring on her finger and held out her hand.  "I might have
been measured for it," she said.  "I wonder how he knew."

"You left a glove behind you, the first day you ever came to our house,"
Mary explained.  "And I kept it."

She was following his wishes and going down into the country.  They did
not meet again until after the war.

Madge dropped in on her during the week and brought Flossie with her.
Flossie's husband, Sam, had departed for the Navy; and Niel Singleton,
who had offered and been rejected for the Army, had joined a Red Cross
unit.  Madge herself was taking up canteen work.  Joan rather expected
Flossie to be in favour of the war, and Madge against it.  Instead of
which, it turned out the other way round.  It seemed difficult to
forecast opinion in this matter.

Madge thought that England, in particular, had been too much given up to
luxury and pleasure.  There had been too much idleness and empty
laughter: Hitchicoo dances and women undressing themselves upon the
stage.  Even the working classes seemed to think of nothing else but
cinemas and beer.  She dreamed of a United Kingdom purified by suffering,
cleansed by tears; its people drawn together by memory of common
sacrifice; class antagonism buried in the grave where Duke's son and
cook's son would lie side by side: of a new-born Europe rising from the
ashes of the old.  With Germany beaten, her lust of war burnt out, her
hideous doctrine of Force proved to be false, the world would breathe a
freer air.  Passion and hatred would fall from man's eyes.  The people
would see one another and join hands.

Flossie was sceptical.  "Why hasn't it done it before?" she wanted to
know.  "Good Lord!  There's been enough of it."

"Why didn't we all kiss and be friends after the Napoleonic wars?" she
demanded, "instead of getting up Peterloo massacres, and anti-Corn Law
riots, and breaking the Duke of Wellington's windows?"

"All this talk of downing Militarism," she continued.  "It's like trying
to do away with the other sort of disorderly house.  You don't stamp out
a vice by chivying it round the corner.  When men and women have become
decent there will be no more disorderly houses.  But it won't come
before.  Suppose we do knock Militarism out of Germany, like we did out
of France, not so very long ago?  It will only slip round the corner into
Russia or Japan.  Come and settle over here, as likely as not, especially
if we have a few victories and get to fancy ourselves."

Madge was of opinion that the world would have had enough of war.  Not
armies but whole peoples would be involved this time.  The lesson would
be driven home.

"Oh, yes, we shall have had enough of it," agreed Flossie, "by the time
we've paid up.  There's no doubt of that.  What about our children?  I've
just left young Frank strutting all over the house and flourishing a
paper knife.  And the servants have had to bar the kitchen door to
prevent his bursting in every five minutes and attacking them.  What's he
going to say when I tell him, later on, that his father and myself have
had all the war we want, and have decided there shall be no more?  The
old folks have had their fun.  Why shouldn't I have mine?  That will be
his argument."

"You can't do it," she concluded, "unless you are prepared to keep half
the world's literature away from the children, scrap half your music,
edit your museums and your picture galleries; bowdlerize your Old
Testament and rewrite your histories.  And then you'll have to be careful
for twenty-four hours a day that they never see a dog-fight."

Madge still held to her hope.  God would make a wind of reason to pass
over the earth.  He would not smite again his people.

"I wish poor dear Sam could have been kept out of it," said Flossie.  She
wiped her eyes and finished her tea.

Joan had arranged to leave on the Monday.  She ran down to see Mary
Stopperton on the Saturday afternoon.  Mr. Stopperton had died the year
before, and Mary had been a little hurt, divining insincerity in the
condolences offered to her by most of her friends.

"You didn't know him, dear," she had said to Joan.  "All his faults were
on the outside."

She did not want to talk about the war.

"Perhaps it's wrong of me," she said.  "But it makes me so sad.  And I
can do nothing."

She had been busy at her machine when Joan had entered; and a pile of
delicate white work lay folded on a chair beside her.

"What are you making?" asked Joan.

The little withered face lighted up.  "Guess," she said, as she unfolded
and displayed a tiny garment.

"I so love making them," she said.  "I say to myself, 'It will all come
right.  God will send more and more of His Christ babies; till at last
there will be thousands and thousands of them everywhere; and their love
will change the world!'"

Her bright eyes had caught sight of the ring upon Joan's hand.  She
touched it with her little fragile fingers.

"You will let me make one for you, dearie, won't you?" she said.  "I feel
sure it will be a little Christ baby."

Arthur was still away when she arrived home.  He had gone to Norway on
business.  Her father was afraid he would find it difficult to get back.
Telegraphic communication had been stopped, and they had had no news of
him.  Her father was worried.  A big Government contract had come in,
while many of his best men had left to enlist.

"I've fixed you up all right at the hospital," he said.  "It was good of
you to think of coming home.  Don't go away, for a bit."  It was the
first time he had asked anything of her.

Another fortnight passed before they heard from Arthur, and then he wrote
them both from Hull.  He would be somewhere in the North Sea, mine
sweeping, when they read his letters.  He had hoped to get a day or two
to run across and say good-bye; but the need for men was pressing and he
had not liked to plead excuses.  The boat by which he had managed to
leave Bergen had gone down.  He and a few others had been picked up, but
the sights that he had seen were haunting him.  He felt sure his uncle
would agree that he ought to be helping, and this was work for England he
could do with all his heart.  He hoped he was not leaving his uncle in
the lurch; but he did not think the war would last long, and he would
soon be back.

"Dear lad," said her father, "he would take the most dangerous work that
he could find.  But I wish he hadn't been quite so impulsive.  He could
have been of more use helping me with this War Office contract.  I
suppose he never got my letter, telling him about it."

In his letter to Joan he went further.  He had received his uncle's
letter, so he confided to her.  Perhaps she would think him a crank, but
he couldn't help it.  He hated this killing business, this making of
machinery for slaughtering men in bulk, like they killed pigs in Chicago.
Out on the free, sweet sea, helping to keep it clean from man's
abominations, he would be away from it all.

She saw the vision of him that night, as, leaning from her window, she
looked out beyond the pines: the little lonely ship amid the waste of
waters; his beautiful, almost womanish, face, and the gentle dreamy eyes
with their haunting suggestion of a shadow.

Her little drummer played less and less frequently to her as the months
passed by.  It didn't seem to be the war he had looked forward to.  The
illustrated papers continued to picture it as a sort of glorified picnic
where smiling young men lolled luxuriously in cosy dug-outs, reading
their favourite paper.  By curious coincidence, it generally happened to
be the journal publishing the photograph.  Occasionally, it appeared,
they came across the enemy, who then put up both hands and shouted
"Kamerad."  But the weary, wounded men she talked to told another story.

She grew impatient of the fighters with their mouths; the savage old
baldheads heroically prepared to sacrifice the last young man; the sleek,
purring women who talked childish nonsense about killing every man, woman
and child in Germany, but quite meant it; the shrieking journalists who
had decided that their place was the home front; the press-spurred mobs,
the spy hunters, chasing terrified old men and sobbing children through
the streets.  It was a relief to enter the quiet ward and close the door
behind her.  The camp-followers: the traders and pedlars, the
balladmongers, and the mountebanks, the ghoulish sightseers!  War brought
out all that was worst in them.  But the givers of their blood, the lads
who suffered, who had made the sacrifice: war had taught them chivalry,
manhood.  She heard no revilings of hatred and revenge from those drawn
lips.  Patience, humour, forgiveness, they had learnt from war.  They
told her kindly stories even of Hans and Fritz.

The little drummer in her brain would creep out of his corner, play to
her softly while she moved about among them.

One day she received a letter from Folk.  He had come to London at the
request of the French Government to consult with English artists on a
matter he must not mention.  He would not have the time, he told her, to
run down to Liverpool.  Could she get a couple of days' leave and dine
with him in London.

She found him in the uniform of a French Colonel.  He had quite a
military bearing and seemed pleased with himself.  He kissed her hand,
and then held her out at arms' length.

"It's wonderful how like you are to your mother," he said, "I wish I were
as young as I feel."

She had written him at the beginning of the war, telling him of her wish
to get out to the front, and he thought that now he might be able to help
her.

"But perhaps you've changed your mind," he said.  "It isn't quite as
pretty as it's painted."

"I want to," she answered.  "It isn't all curiosity.  I think it's time
for women to insist on seeing war with their own eyes, not trust any
longer to the pictures you men paint."  She smiled.

"But I've got to give it up," she added.  "I can't leave Dad."

They were sitting in the hall of the hotel.  It was the dressing hour and
the place was almost empty.  He shot a swift glance at her.

"Arthur is still away," she explained, "and I feel that he wants me.  I
should be worrying myself, thinking of him all alone with no one to look
after him.  It's the mother instinct I suppose.  It always has hampered
woman."  She laughed.

"Dear old boy," he said.  He was watching her with a little smile.  "I'm
glad he's got some luck at last."

They dined in the great restaurant belonging to the hotel.  He was still
vastly pleased with himself as he marched up the crowded room with Joan
upon his arm.  He held himself upright and talked and laughed perhaps
louder than an elderly gentleman should.  "Swaggering old beggar," he
must have overheard a young sub. mutter as they passed.  But he did not
seem to mind it.

They lingered over the meal.  Folk was a brilliant talker.  Most of the
men whose names were filling the newspapers had sat to him at one time or
another.  He made them seem quite human.  Joan was surprised at the time.

"Come up to my rooms, will you?" he asked.  "There's something I want to
say to you.  And then I'll walk back with you."  She was staying at a
small hotel off Jermyn Street.

He sat her down by the fire and went into the next room.  He had a letter
in his hand when he returned.  Joan noticed that the envelope was written
upon across the corner, but she was not near enough to distinguish the
handwriting.  He placed it on the mantelpiece and sat down opposite her.

"So you have come to love the dear old chap," he said.

"I have always loved him," Joan answered.  "It was he didn't love me, for
a time, as I thought.  But I know now that he does."

He was silent for a few moments, and then he leant across and took her
hands in his.

"I am going," he said, "where there is just the possibility of an
accident: one never knows.  I wanted to be sure that all was well with
you."

He was looking at the ring upon her hand.

"A soldier boy?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered.  "If he comes back."  There was a little catch in
her voice.

"I know he'll come back," he said.  "I won't tell you why I am so sure.
Perhaps you wouldn't believe."  He was still holding her hands, looking
into her eyes.

"Tell me," he said, "did you see your mother before she died.  Did she
speak to you?"

"No," Joan answered.  "I was too late.  She had died the night before.  I
hardly recognized her when I saw her.  She looked so sweet and young."

"She loved you very dearly," he said.  "Better than herself.  All those
years of sorrow: they came to her because of that.  I thought it foolish
of her at the time, but now I know she was wise.  I want you always to
love and honour her.  I wouldn't ask you if it wasn't right."

She looked at him and smiled.  "It's quite easy," she answered.  "I
always see her as she lay there with all the sorrow gone from her.  She
looked so beautiful and kind."

He rose and took the letter from where he had placed it on the
mantelpiece.  He stooped and held it out above the fire and a little
flame leaped up and seemed to take it from his hand.

They neither spoke during the short walk between the two hotels.  But at
the door she turned and held out her hands to him.

"Thank you," she said, "for being so kind--and wise.  I shall always love
and honour her."

He kissed her, promising to take care of himself.

She ran against Phillips, the next day, at one of the big stores where
she was shopping.  He had obtained a commission early in the war and was
now a captain.  He had just come back from the front on leave.  The
alternative had not appealed to him, of being one of those responsible
for sending other men to death while remaining himself in security and
comfort.

"It's a matter of temperament," he said.  "Somebody's got to stop behind
and do the patriotic speechifying.  I'm glad I didn't.  Especially after
what I've seen."

He had lost interest in politics.

"There's something bigger coming," he said.  "Here everything seems to be
going on much the same, but over there you feel it.  Something growing
silently out of all this blood and mud.  I find myself wondering what the
men are staring at, but when I look there's nothing as far as my field-
glasses will reach but waste and desolation.  And it isn't only on the
faces of our own men.  It's in the eyes of the prisoners too.  As if they
saw something.  A funny ending to the war, if the people began to think."

Mrs. Phillips was running a Convalescent Home in Folkestone, he told her;
and had even made a speech.  Hilda was doing relief work among the ruined
villages of France.

"It's a new world we shall be called upon to build," he said.  "We must
pay more heed to the foundation this time."

She seldom discussed the war with her father.  At the beginning, he had
dreamed with Greyson of a short and glorious campaign that should weld
all classes together, and after which we should forgive our enemies and
shape with them a better world.  But as the months went by, he appeared
to grow indifferent; and Joan, who got about twelve hours a day of it
outside, welcomed other subjects.

It surprised her when one evening after dinner he introduced it himself.