should you? It's the sort of work anyone can do-teaching
kids to mangle."

"But . . . what do you think I am going to do with the remainder of my
days--crochet? embroider slippers for the curate? Trevor, you wouldn't
like me to come to that in my old age, would you?" She spoke with
gentle banter, as if to fend off something she feared. Had Torps known
it, she was fencing for the happiness of them both.

He shook his head gravely.

"I hoped--because you had written to me--that you weren't going
back. . . ." His thin, strong hand closed over hers, resting on the
turf between them. He bent his head as if considering their fingers.
"Margaret, dear----"

"Ah, Trevor, don't--please don't. . . . Not again. I thought all that
was dead and buried years ago. And do you really think"--she smiled a
little sadly--"if I--if things were different--that I should have
written to ask you to meet me to-day? Have you learned so little of
women in all these years?" There was something besides sadness in her
eyes now: a wistful, half-maternal tenderness. He raised his head.

"I've learned nothing about women, Margaret, but what I learned from
you."

She gently withdrew her hand. "Trevor, we're not children any longer.
We're older and wiser. We----"

"We're older--yes. But I don't see what that has to do with it, except
that my need is greater. . . . I'm a little lonelier. There's never
been anyone but you. I've never looked across the road at a woman in
my life--except you. I know we're not children, and for that reason we
ought to know our own minds. Do you know yours, Margaret?"

Margaret bowed her head, collecting her thoughts and setting them in
order, before she answered:

"It isn't easy to say what I have to say. You must be
patient--generous, as you can be, Trevor, of all the men I know." She
hesitated and coloured again a little. "You say you want me. If there
were no one else who I thought had a greater claim, you should--no,
hush! listen, dear--I would give you--what you want . . . gladly--oh,
gladly! But the children need me--my influence. . . . Miss Dacre said
it is doing the highest service one could for the Empire . . . theirs
is the higher claim. Can you understand? Oh, can you?"

Torps made no reply, staring out to sea with sombre eyes.

Gaining confidence with his silence, she continued the shy unfolding of
her ideals. "Nothing is too good for boys; no training is high enough,
beca