well--I don't
mind saying to _you_, Mrs. Otway, I still think it a pity that we have
sent our Army abroad."

* * * * *

Three days later Rose and her mother each received a quaint-looking
postcard from "Somewhere in France." There was neither postmark nor
date. The first four words were printed, but what was really _very_
strange was the fact that the sentences written in were almost similar
in each case. But whereas Jervis Blake wrote his few words in English,
Major Guthrie's few words were written in French.

Jervis Blake's postcard ran:

"I AM QUITE WELL and very happy. This is a glorious country. I will
write a letter soon." And then "J. B."

That of Major Guthrie:

"I AM QUITE WELL." Then, in queer archaic French, "and all goes well
with me. I trust it is the same with thee. Will write soon."

But he, mindful of the fact that it was an open postcard, with your
Scotchman's true caution, had not even added his initials.

Mrs. Otway's only comment on hearing that Jervis Blake had written Rose
a postcard from France, had been the words, said feelingly, and with a
sigh, "Ah, well! So he has gone out too? He is very young to see
something of real war. But I expect that it will make a man of him, poor
boy."

For a moment Rose had longed to throw herself in her mother's arms and
tell her the truth; then she had reminded herself that to do so would
not be fair to Jervis. Jervis would have told his people of their
engagement if she had allowed him to do so. It was she who had prevented
it. And then--and then--Rose also knew, deep in her heart, that if
anything happened to Jervis, she would far rather bear the agony alone.
She loved her mother dearly, but she told herself, with the curious
egoism of youth, that her mother would not understand.

Rose had been four years old when her father died; she thought she could
remember him, but it was a very dim, shadowy memory. She did not
realise, even now, that her mother had once loved, once lost, once
suffered. She did not believe that her mother knew anything of love--of
real love, of true love, of such love as now bound herself to Jervis
Blake.

Her mother no doubt supposed Rose's friendship with Jervis Blake to be
like her own friendship with Major Guthrie--a cold, sensible, placid
affair. In fact, she had said, with a smile, "It's rather amusing, isn't
it, that Jervis should write to you, and Major Guthrie to me, by the
same post?"