ordnance map near it. But in
answer to her enquiries about the boy, the Squire had vouchsafed
only a few irritable words, 'Well--he's not killed yet! The devil's
business over there seems to be working up to a greater hell than
ever!' Nothing more.

Well, she would see to that! Mannering should feel the war, if she
were to live in it. She straightened her shoulders, her will
stiffening to its task.

Yes, and while that dear boy was out there, in that grim fighting
line, no action of hers, if she could help it, should cause him a
moment's anger or trouble. Her resolution was taken. If the Squire
did mean to ask her to marry him she would try and stop him in
mid-career. If she couldn't stop him, well, then, she would give him
his choice--either to keep her, as secretary and friend, and hold
his peace, or to lose her. She felt certain of her power to contain
the Squire's 'offensive,' if it were really threatened.

But, on the other hand, she was not going to give up her post
because the twins had taken some unjust prejudice against her!
Nothing of the kind. She had those ash trees to look after! She was
tolerably sure that a thorough search would comb out a good many
more for the Air Board from the Squire's woods than had yet been
discovered. The Fallerton hospital wanted more accommodation. There
was an empty house belonging to the Squire, which she had already
begun, before her absence, with his grudging permission, to get
ready for the purpose. _That_ had to be finished. The war workroom
in the village, which she had started, must have another
Superintendent, the first having turned out a useless chatterbox.
Elizabeth had her successor already in mind. There were three or
four applications waiting for the two other neglected farms. Captain
Dell was hurrying on the repairs; but there was more money
wanted--she must get it out of the Squire. Then as to labour--German
prisoners?--or women?

Her brain began to teem with a score of projects. But after lying
awake another hour, she pulled herself up. 'This won't do. I must
have six hours' sleep.' And she resolutely set herself to repeat one
of the nursery poems of her childhood, till, wooed by its silly
monotony, sleep came.

It was a bright March day in the Mannering woods, where the Squire,
Elizabeth, and Captain Dell were hanging about waiting for Sir Henry
Chicksands. The astonishing warmth and sunshine of the month had
brought out a shimmer of spring everywhere,