illusions cherished by her mother. Rose was as naturally
reserved as her mother was naturally confiding, and Mrs. Otway was
therefore far more popular in their little world than her daughter.

Rose, however, was very pretty, with a finished, delicately fresh and
aloof type of beauty which was singularly attractive to the intelligent
and fastidious. And so there had already appeared, striking across the
current of their placid lives, more than one acute observer who,
divining certain hidden depths of feeling in the girl's nature, longed
to probe and rouse them. But so far such attempts, generally undertaken
by men who were a good deal older than Rose Otway, had failed to inspire
anything but shrinking repugnance in their object.

But Jervis Blake was different. Jervis she had known more or less
always, owing to that early girlish friendship between his mother and
her mother. When he had come to "Robey's" to be coached, Mrs. Otway had
made him free of her house, and though she herself, not unnaturally, did
not find him an interesting companion, he soon had become part of the
warp and woof of Rose's young life. Like most only children, she had
always longed for a brother or a sister; and Jervis was the nearest
possession of the kind to which she had ever attained.

Yes, the War was coming very near to Rose Otway, and for more than one
reason. As soon as she got up she sat down and wrote a long letter to a
girl friend who was engaged to a naval officer. She had suddenly
realised with a pang that this girl, of whom she was really fond, must
now be feeling very miserable and very anxious. Every one seemed to
think there would soon be a tremendous battle between the British and
the German fleets. And the Dean, who had been to Kiel last year,
believed that the German sailors would give a very good account of
themselves.

The daily papers were delivered very early in Witanbury Close. And after
she had helped old Anna as far as Anna would allow herself to be helped
in the light housework with which she began each day, Rose went out and
stood by the gate. She longed to know what news, if any, there was.

But the moments went slowly by, and with the exception of a milk cart
which clattered gaily along, the Close remained deserted. Half-past
seven in the morning, even on a fine August day, saw a good many people
still in bed in an English country town. To-day Rose Otway, having
herself risen so early, was inclined to agree with