on of pain, almost of anguish,
which quivered over her eyes and mouth. Then she did care, after all.

"Howse tells me," she said slowly, "that Major Guthrie is probably a
prisoner. He says, he says----" and then she stopped abruptly--it was as
if she could not go on with her sentence, and Mr. Allen exclaimed, "I
heard what he said, Mrs. Otway. Of course he is right in stating that an
effort is always made to find and bring in the bodies of dead officers.
But I fear that this war is not at all like the only war of which Howse
has had any first-hand knowledge. This last week has been a very bad
business. Still, I quite agree that we must not give up hope. I have
been wondering whether you would like me to make inquiries at the War
Office, or whether you have any better and quicker--I mean of course by
that any private--means of procuring information?"

"No," she said hopelessly; "I have no way of finding out anything. And I
should be very grateful indeed, Mr. Allen, if you would do what you
can." For the first time she spoke as if she had a direct interest in
Major Guthrie's fate. "Perhaps"--she fixed her eyes on him appealingly,
and he saw them slowly fill up and brim over with tears--"Perhaps if you
_should_ hear anything, you would not mind telegraphing to me direct? I
think you have my address."

And then, bursting into bitter sobs, she suddenly got up and ran out of
the room.

So she did know about Major Guthrie's will. In what other way could he,
the man to whom she was speaking, know her address? Mr. Allen also told
himself, with some surprise, that he had been mistaken--that Mrs. Otway,
after all, was not the quiet, passionless woman he had supposed her to
be.

* * * * *

When she reached the Trellis House late that Sunday afternoon, Mrs.
Otway was met at the door by Rose, and the girl, with face full of
mingled awe and pain, told her that the blow on the Deanery had fallen.
Edith Haworth had received the news that Sir Hugh Severn was
dead--killed at the head of his men in a great cavalry charge.

CHAPTER XIX

There are times in life when everything is out of focus, when events
take on the measure, not of what they really are, but of the mental
state of the people affected by them. Such a time had now come to the
mistress of the Trellis House. For a while Mrs. Otway saw everything,
heard everything, read everything, through a mist of aching pain and of
that worst mi