ered was her name; the last picture shrouded by the approaching
mists of sleep was of her face. What was morning but a sunlit moment
that meant Elise? What was the day, what were the years, what was life,
but one great moment to be lived for Elise--Elise?

'Put me down, Austin. There! you'll be tired.'

'Tired!'

But her feet had touched the ground, and she was away again by herself,
like a tantalising sprite of the woods. The errant lock had been joined
in its mutiny by a wealth of dark-hued, auburn hair, blowing free in the
reckless summer breeze.

Out of the estate and along the highway, shadowed by tall bushes; past
cottages hiding in snug retreat of vines and flowers; past the
cross-roads, with their sign-post standing like a gibbet waiting its
prize; past the inn on the outskirts of the village, with its creaking
sign, and its neighing horses in the stable; past the church on the rise
of the hill, with its graveyard and its ivy-covered steeple--and then the
village.

Gathered in the square they could see a group of people listening to a
man who was reading something aloud.

'It's the rector,' said Elise. 'Let us wait a minute. Can you hear what
he is saying?'

The voice had stopped, and the crowd broke into a cheer that echoed
strangely on the night-air. It had hardly died away when a quavering,
high-pitched voice started 'God Save the King,' and with a sturdy
indifference to pitch the rest followed, the octogenarian who had begun
it sounding clear above the others as he half-whistled and half-sang the
anthem through his two remaining teeth.

'That's old Hills!' cried Elise, laughing hysterically. 'He was at
Sebastopol.'

The crowd was coming away.

Some were boisterous, others silent. A girl was laughing, but there was
a strange look in her eyes. Bounding ahead in high appreciation of the
village's nocturnal behaviour, a nondescript hound was preceding an
elderly widow who was weeping quietly as with faltering step she clung to
the arm of her son, who was carrying himself with a new erectness.

Behind them walked Mathews the groom, corn-cob pipe and all, shaking his
head argumentatively and squaring his shoulders.

An Empire had declared war.

III.

Elise entered the post-office to telephone the news to Roselawn, and
Selwyn was left alone. It was only for a few minutes, but in that brief
space of time his whole being underwent a vital crisis, which was not
only to change the course