fiction, they can be
collected by the score. That, no doubt, was how Pamela thought of
her. So that, after her involuntary tears, Elizabeth ended in a
laughter that was half angry, half affectionate.

Poor children! She was not going to turn them out of their home. She
had written to Pamela during her absence with her mother, asking
again for an explanation of the wild and whirling things that Pamela
had said to her that night in the hall, and in return not a single
frank or penitent word!--only a few perfunctory enquiries after Mrs.
Bremerton, and half a page about an air-raid. It left Elizabeth
sorer and more puzzled than before.

Desmond too! She had written to him also from London a long chat
about all the things he cared about at Mannering--the animals,
Pamela's pony, the old keeper, the few pheasants still left in the
woods, and what Perley said of the promise of a fair partridge
season. And the boy had replied immediately. Desmond's Eton manners
were rarely caught napping; but the polite little note--stiff and
frosty--might have been written to a complete stranger.

What _was_ in their minds? How could she put it right? Well, anyhow,
Desmond could not at that moment be wasting time or thought on home
worries, or her own supposed misdemeanours. Where was the radiant
boy now? In some artillery camp, she supposed, behind the lines,
waiting for his ordeal of blood and fire. Waiting with the whole
Army--the whole Empire--for that leap of the German monster which
must be met and parried and struck down before England could breathe
again. And as she thought of him, her woman's soul, winged by its
passion of patriotism, seemed to pass out into the night across the
sea, till it stood beside the English hosts.

'Forces and Powers of the Universe, be with them!--strengthen the
strong, uphold the weak, comfort the dying!--for in them lies the
hope of the world.'

Her life hung on the prayer. The irresponsive quiet of the night
over the Mannering woods and park, with nothing but the wind for
voice, seemed to her unbearable. And it only answered to the apathy
within doors. Why, the Squire had scarcely mentioned the war since
her return! Neither he nor Mrs. Gaddesden had asked her for an
evening paper, though there had been a bad London raid the night
before. She had seen a letter 'on active service,' and addressed,
she thought, in Desmond's handwriting, lying on the library table;
and it seemed to her there was a French