boys crowded about the
door; a young fellow pushed through and halted on the threshold,
looking about him rather sombrely. It was Jack Elliott from
over-harbour--a McGill medical student, a quiet chap not much addicted
to social doings. He had been invited to the party but had not been
expected to come since he had to go to Charlottetown that day and could
not be back until late. Yet here he was--and he carried a folded paper
in his hand.

Gertrude Oliver looked at him from her corner and shivered again. She
had enjoyed the party herself, after all, for she had foregathered with
a Charlottetown acquaintance who, being a stranger and much older than
most of the guests, felt himself rather out of it, and had been glad to
fall in with this clever girl who could talk of world doings and
outside events with the zest and vigour of a man. In the pleasure of
his society she had forgotten some of her misgivings of the day. Now
they suddenly returned to her. What news did Jack Elliott bring? Lines
from an old poem flashed unbidden into her mind--"there was a sound of
revelry by night"--"Hush! Hark! A deep sound strikes like a rising
knell"--why should she think of that now? Why didn't Jack Elliott
speak--if he had anything to tell? Why did he just stand there,
glowering importantly?

"Ask him--ask him," she said feverishly to Allan Daly. But somebody
else had already asked him. The room grew very silent all at once.
Outside the fiddler had stopped for a rest and there was silence there
too. Afar off they heard the low moan of the gulf--the presage of a
storm already on its way up the Atlantic. A girl's laugh drifted up
from the rocks and died away as if frightened out of existence by the
sudden stillness.

"England declared war on Germany today," said Jack Elliott slowly. "The
news came by wire just as I left town."

"God help us," whispered Gertrude Oliver under her breath. "My
dream--my dream! The first wave has broken." She looked at Allan Daly
and tried to smile.

"Is this Armageddon?" she asked.

"I am afraid so," he said gravely.

A chorus of exclamations had arisen round them--light surprise and idle
interest for the most part. Few there realized the import of the
message--fewer still realized that it meant anything to them. Before
long the dancing was on again and the hum of pleasure was as loud as
ever. Gertrude and Allan Daly talked the news over in low, troubled
tones. Walter Blythe had turned pale and left t