en to be bred from birth on its glorious legend. The German shell
left Betty stripped and maimed. With her passionate generosity she had
given her all; even as his all had been nobly given by her husband. And
then all of both had been swept ruthlessly away down the gory draught
of sacrifice.

Poor Betty! "I'm a damned little coward," she said, as she bolted into
the house. The brave, foolish words rang in my ears all that night. In
the early morning I wondered what I should do. A commonplace message,
written or telephoned, would be inept. I shrank from touching her,
although I knew she would feel my touch to be gentle. You have seen, I
hope, that Betty was dearer to me than anyone else in the world, and I
knew that, apart from the stirring emotions in her own young life,
Betty held me in the closest affection. When she needed me, she would
fly the signal. Of that I felt assured. Still...

While I was in this state of perplexity, Marigold came in to rouse me
and get me ready for the day.

"I've taken the liberty, sir," said he, "to telephone to Telford Lodge
to enquire after Mrs. Connor. The maid said she had Mrs. Connor's
instructions to reply that she was quite well."

The good, admirable fellow! I thanked him. While I was shaving, he said
in his usual wooden way:

"Begging your pardon, sir, I thought you might like to send Mrs. Connor
a few flowers, so I took upon myself to cut some roses, first thing
this morning, with the dew on them."

Of course I cut myself and the blood flowed profusely.

"Why the dickens do you spring things like that on people while they're
shaving?" I cried.

"Very sorry, sir," said he, solicitous with sponge and towel.

"All the same, Marigold," said I, "you've solved a puzzle that has kept
me awake since early dawn. We'll go out as soon as I'm dressed and
we'll send her every rose in the garden."

I have an acre or so of garden behind the house of which I have not yet
spoken, save incidentally--for it was there that just a year ago poor
Althea Fenimore ate her giant strawberries on the last afternoon of her
young life; and a cross-grained old misanthropist, called Timbs,
attends to it and lavishes on the flowers the love which, owing, I
suspect, to blighted early affection, he denies to mankind. I am very
fond of my garden and am especially interested in my roses. Do you know
an exquisitely pink rose--the only true pink--named Mrs. George
Norwood? ... I bring myself up with a jer