address about the war." She
added, in a different and a kindlier tone: "You must forgive me, Mary,
for saying what I did about your good old Anna! But you know I'm really
fond of you, and I'm even fonder of your sweet Rose than I am of you. I
always feel that there is a great deal in Rose--more than in any other
girl I know. And then--well, Mary, she is so very pretty! prettier than
you even were, though you had a way of making every one think you
lovely!"

Mrs. Otway laughed. She was quite mollified. "I know how fond you are of
Rose," she said gratefully, "and, of course, I don't mind your having
spoken to me about Anna. But as to parting with her--that would mean the
end of the world to us, to your young friend Rose even more than to me.
Why, it would be worse--far worse--than the war!"

CHAPTER II

As Mrs. Otway walked slowly on, she could not help telling herself that
dear old Miss Forsyth had been more interfering and tiresome than she
usually was this morning.

She felt ruffled by the little talk they two had just had--so ruffled
and upset that, instead of turning into the gate of the house where she
had been bound--for she, too, had meant to pay a call in the Close on
her way to the cathedral--she walked slowly on the now deserted stretch
of road running through and under the avenue of elm trees which are so
beautiful and distinctive a feature of Witanbury Close.

Again a lump rose to her throat, and this time the tears started into
her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. In sheer astonishment at her own
emotion, she stopped short, and taking out her handkerchief dabbed her
eyes hurriedly. How strange that this interchange of words with one
whose peculiarities she had known, and, yes, suffered under and smiled
at for so many years, should make her feel so--so--so upset!

Mrs. Otway was a typical Englishwoman of her age, which was forty-three,
and of her class, which was that from which are drawn most of the women
from whom the clergy of the Established Church choose their wives. There
are thousands such, living in serene girlhood, wifehood, or widowhood,
to be found in the villages and country towns of dear old England. With
but very few exceptions, they are kindly-natured, unimaginative, imbued
with a shrinking dislike of any exaggerated display of emotion; in some
ways amazingly broad-minded, in others curiously limited in their
outlook on life. Such women, as a rule, present few points of interest