er, and
occasionally getting in the way. By night she has her little hospital
prepared and three beds already up and occupied; and, all now done that
can be done, she and John go upstairs to his old rooms above the counting-
house.

John ushers her into them with some misgiving, for by contrast with the
house at Bloomsbury they are poor and shabby. He places her in the arm-
chair near the fire, begging her to rest quiet, and then assists his old
housekeeper, whose wits, never of the strongest, have been scared by the
day's proceeding, to lay the meal.

Anne's eyes follow him as he moves about the room. Perhaps here, where
all the real part of his life has been passed, he is more his true self
than amid the unfamiliar surroundings of fashion; perhaps this simpler
frame shows him to greater advantage; but Anne wonders how it is she has
never noticed before that he is a well-set, handsome man. Nor, indeed,
is he so very old-looking. Is it a trick of the dim light, or what? He
looks almost young. But why should he not look young, seeing he is only
thirty-six, and at thirty-six a man is in his prime? Anne wonders why
she has always thought of him as an elderly person.

A portrait of one of John's ancestors hangs over the great mantelpiece--of
that sturdy Captain Ingerfield who fought the King's frigate rather than
give up one of his people. Anne glances from the dead face to the living
and notes the strong likeness between them. Through her half-closed eyes
she sees the grim old captain hurling back his message of defiance, and
his face is the face she saw a few hours ago, saying, "I mean to stop
here with you and do what I can for you. None of my people shall want."

John is placing a chair for her at the table, and the light from the
candles falls upon him. She steals another glance at his face--a strong,
stern, handsome face, capable of becoming a noble face. Anne wonders if
it has ever looked down tenderly at anyone; feels a sudden fierce pain at
the thought; dismisses the thought as impossible; wonders, nevertheless,
how tenderness would suit it; thinks she would like to see a look of
tenderness upon it, simply out of curiosity; wonders if she ever will.

She rouses herself from her reverie as John, with a smile, tells her
supper is ready, and they seat themselves opposite each other, an odd air
of embarrassment pervading.

Day by day their work grows harder; day by day the foe grows stronger,
fiercer