ng on the city! Yet the writer of that
diary--he was only a humble blacksmith--had put in simple and yet very
noble language his conviction that old England would never go down, _if
only she remained true to herself_.

It was this fine message from the past which the Dean brought to the
people of Witanbury that day. What had been true when we had been
fighting a far greater man than any of those we were fighting to-day--he
meant of course Napoleon--was even truer now than then. All would be,
must be, ultimately well, if England to herself would stay but true.

A few of those who listened with uplifted hearts to the really
inspiriting discourse, noted with satisfaction that, for the first time
since the declaration of war, Dr. Haworth paid no tribute to the enemy.
The word "Germany" did not even pass his lips.

And then, when at the end of the service Mrs. Otway and Rose were
passing through the porch, Mrs. Otway felt herself touched on the arm.
She turned round quickly to find Mrs. Haworth close to her.

"I've been wondering if Rose would come back with me and see Edith? I'm
sorry to say the poor child isn't at all well to-day. And so we
persuaded her to stay in bed. You see"--she lowered her voice, and that
though there was no one listening to them--"you see, we hear privately
that the cavalry were very heavily engaged last Wednesday, and that the
casualties have been terribly heavy. My poor child says very little, but
it's evident that she's so miserably anxious that she can think of
nothing else. Her father thinks she's fretting because we would not
allow--or perhaps I ought to say we discouraged the idea of--a hasty
marriage. I feel sure it would do Edith good to see some one, especially
a dear little friend like Rose, who has no connection with the Army, and
who can look at things in a sensible, normal manner."

And so mother and daughter, for an hour, went their different ways, and
Mrs. Otway, as she walked home alone, told herself that anxiety became
Mrs. Haworth, that it rendered the Dean's wife less brusque, and made
her pleasanter and kindlier in manner. Poor Edith was her ewe lamb, the
prettiest of the daughters whom she had started so successfully out into
the world, and the one who was going to make, from a worldly point of
view, the best marriage. Yes, it would indeed be a dreadful thing if
anything happened to Sir Hugh Severn.

Casualties? What an odd, sinister word! One with which it was difficult