the course of the great struggle which was going on
in France and in Flanders. She glanced over the
paper each morning, and often a name seen in the
casualty lists brought her the painful task of writing a
letter of condolence to some old friend or acquaintance.
But she did not care, as did all the people
around her, to talk about the War. It had brought
to her, personally, too much hidden pain. How surprised
her critics would have been had an angel, or
some equally credible witness informed them that of
all the women of their acquaintance there was no one
whose life had been more altered or affected by the
War than Mary Otway's!

She was too unhappy to care much what those about
her thought of her. Even so, it did hurt her when
she came, slowly, to realise that the Robeys and Mrs.
Haworth, who were after all the most intimate of her
neighbours in the Close, regarded with surprise, and
yes, indignation, what they imagined to be an unpatriotic
disinclination on her part to follow intelligently
the march of events.

It took her longer to find out that the continued
presence of her good old Anna at the Trellis House
was rousing a certain amount of disagreeable comment.
At first no one had thought it in the least strange that
Anna stayed on with her, but now, occasionally, someone
said a word indicative of surprise that there
should be a German woman living in Witanbury
Close.

But what were these foolish, ignorant criticisms
but tiny pin-pricks compared with the hidden wound
in her heart? The news for which she craved was
not news of victory from the Front, but news that

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v?