where, as she now recognised, she had seen only him. True, she glanced
over a paper each day, but she only sufficiently mastered its contents
to be able to reply intelligently to those with whom her daily round
brought her in contact.

And soon, to her surprise, and ever-growing discomfort, Anna Bauer--her
good, faithful old Anna, for whom she had always had such feelings of
affection, and yes, of gratitude--began to get on her nerves. It was not
that she associated Anna with the War, and with all that the War had
brought to her personally of joy and of grief. Rather was it the sudden
perception that her own secret ideals of life and those of the woman
near whom she had lived for close on eighteen years, were utterly
different, and, in a deep sense, irreconcilable.

Mrs. Otway grew to dislike, with a nervous, sharp distaste, the very
sight of Anna's favourite motto, "_Arbeit macht das Leben suess, und die
Welt zum Paradies_" ("Work makes life sweet and the world a paradise").
Was it possible that in the old days she had admired that lying
sentiment? Lying? Yes, indeed! Work did _not_ make life sweet, or she,
Mary Otway, would now be happier than ever, for she had never worked as
hard as she was now working--working to destroy thought--working to dull
the dreadful aching at her heart, throwing herself, with a feverish
eagerness which surprised those about her, into the various war
activities which were now, largely owing to the intelligence and
thoroughness of Miss Forsyth, being organised in Witanbury.

Mrs. Otway also began to hate the other German mottoes which Anna had
put all about the Trellis House, especially in those rooms which might
be regarded as her own domain--the kitchen, the old nursery, and Rose's
bedroom. There was something of the kind embroidered on every single
article which would take a _Spruch_, and Anna's mistress sometimes felt
as if she would like to make a bonfire of them all!

Every time she went into her kitchen she also longed to tear down, with
violent hands, the borders of fine crochet work, the _Kante_, with which
each wooden shelf was edged, and of which she had been almost as proud
as had been Anna. This crochet work seemed to haunt her, for wherever it
could be utilised, Anna, during those long years of willing service, had
sewn it proudly on, in narrow edgings and in broad bands.

Not only were all Mrs. Otway's and Rose's under-clothing trimmed with
it, but it served as insertion f