Mr. McKean shook her hand vigorously without looking at her. “You see, dear, I began when I was young,” she explained; “and he has always seen me the same. I don’t think I could live like this.”!

“It’s a matter of temperament,” he said. “Somebody’s got to stop behind and do the patriotic speechifying. I’m glad I didn’t. Especially after what I’ve seen.” The striking of the old church clock recalled her to herself. But she had only a few minutes’ walk before her. Mary had given up her Church work. It included the cleaning, and she had found it beyond her failing strength. But she still lived in the tiny cottage behind its long strip of garden. The door yielded to Joan’s touch: it was seldom fast closed. And knowing Mary’s ways, she entered without knocking and pushed it to behind her, leaving it still ajar.

“Oh, it isn’t that,” he answered. “But she’s frightened. You know. Says life with me is going to be a bit too uncertain for her. Perhaps she’s right.” It struck her that he was relieved. He gave the man the address, speaking hurriedly, and jumped in. The firelight showed to Joan a comically frightened face, with round, staring eyes and an open mouth.