said to herself. "She has gone through so much. I
thought she was in for a little time of peace and happiness. Poor
Margaret!" She sighed. "And what is there still before her?"
Hadassah's eyes looked into the future, "with this cruel, cruel war
only beginning, for we are really just getting into it!"

She had been preparing to write some letters relating to Margaret's
affairs, but for a moment or two she did not take up her pen. A little
of the truth of what did actually happen to Michael on the battlefields
of Flanders swam before her eyes; it was just the things which were
happening and have happened to England's brave boys and men during
these three wonderful years. The war was still in its infancy, but
even then the vices of Germany were as old as her race and as terrible.

She pictured the truth--Michael's charmed life, his reckless courage,
his magnetic power over his men. She foresaw it all. His temperament
foretold it, his absolute belief in the triumph of righteousness.

While Hadassah was thinking these things, and thanking God in her heart
that her husband, by reason of his special qualifications, had at once
been placed in a post of great responsibility and one far removed from
the danger-zone, Margaret had reached the drawing-room. She paused for
a moment outside the door; she needed all her self-control.

As she entered the room, and before she had closed the door behind her,
a slight figure, so shapelessly enveloped in black and closely-veiled
that she could not distinguish any individuality, turned from the
window, which opened into a small glass recess full of ferns and
flowers.

Margaret did not hold out her hand; she could not. Nor did Millicent
Mervill; she stood before Margaret, her head bent and her hands clasped
in front of her, a slight bundle of drooping black, as mysterious as
any veiled Egyptian woman.

"You have something to tell me?" Margaret said. In spite of her anger,
the humility of the fragile figure brought a suggestion of pity into
her voice. The radiant beauty whom she had steeled her nerves to meet
had given place to this meek, formless penitent. "Please put up your
veil--I can't see you." She knew that she could not trust the woman's
words; she wished to watch her eyes while she spoke.

"I am wearing it," Millicent said, "because I can't bear you to look at
me, to see how changed I am. Please let me keep it down, while I tell
you all I know about Mr. Amory a