betrayed itself, for Mrs.
Otway went on, nervously and conciliatingly: "I did try to arrange for
you to go and spend the time with your daughter, but apparently they
will not allow Germans to be transferred from one town to another
without a great deal of fuss, and I knew, Anna, that you would not
really want to go to the Pollits. I felt sure you would rather stay in
Witanbury. But if you dislike the idea of going to Miss Forsyth, then I
think I can arrange for you to come out to Dorycote----" But even as she
said the words she knew that such an arrangement would never work.

"No, no," said Anna, in German. "It does not matter where I go for a few
days. If I am in Miss Forsyth's house I can see my gracious young lady
from time to time. She will ever be kind to her poor old nurse." And
Mrs. Otway could not find it in her heart to tell Anna that Rose was
also going away.

CHAPTER XXIX

Anna stood peeping behind the pretty muslin curtain of her kitchen
window. She was standing in exactly the same place and attitude she had
stood in eight months before, on the first day of war. But oh, how
different were the sensations and the thoughts with which she now looked
out on the familiar scene! She had then been anxious and disturbed, but
not as she was disturbed and anxious to-day.

The Trellis House had become so entirely her home that she resented
bitterly being forced to leave it against her will. Also, she dreaded
the thought of the days she would have to spend under Miss Forsyth's
roof.

Anna had never liked Miss Forsyth. Miss Forsyth had a rather short,
sharp way with her, or so the old German woman considered--and her house
was always full of such queer folk below and above stairs. Just now
there was the Belgian family, and also, as Anna had managed to discover,
three odd-come-shorts in the kitchen.

Anna's general unease had not been lessened by a mysterious letter which
she had received from her daughter this morning. In it the writer hinted
that her husband was getting into some fresh trouble. Louisa had ended
with a very disturbing sentence: "I feel as if I can't bear my
life!"--that was what Louisa had written.

The minutes dragged by, and Anna, staring out into the now deserted
Close--deserted, save for a number of carriages and motors which were
waiting by the little gate leading into the Cathedral enclosure--became
very worried and impatient.

From her point of view it was much to be wished that