in his parish came
to his ears from time to time; cases of young girls whose heads were
turned by soldiers, so that they were about to become mothers. They
seemed to him pitiful indeed; but he could not forgive them for their
giddiness, for putting temptation in the way of brave young men,
fighting, or about to fight. The glamour which surrounded soldiers was
not excuse enough. When the babies were born, and came to his notice,
he consulted a Committee he had formed, of three married and two maiden
ladies, who visited the mothers, and if necessary took the babies into
a creche; for those babies had a new value to the country, and were
not--poor little things!--to be held responsible for their mothers'
faults. He himself saw little of the young mothers; shy of them,
secretly afraid, perhaps, of not being censorious enough. But once in a
way Life set him face to face with one.

On New Year's Eve he was sitting in his study after tea, at that hour
which he tried to keep for his parishioners, when a Mrs. Mitchett was
announced, a small bookseller's wife, whom he knew for an occasional
Communicant. She came in, accompanied by a young dark-eyed girl in a
loose mouse-coloured coat. At his invitation they sat down in front of
the long bookcase on the two green leather chairs which had grown worn
in the service of the parish; and, screwed round in his chair at the
bureau, with his long musician's fingers pressed together, he looked
at them and waited. The woman had taken out her handkerchief, and was
wiping her eyes; but the girl sat quiet, as the mouse she somewhat
resembled in that coat.

"Yes, Mrs. Mitchett?" He said gently, at last.

The woman put away her handkerchief, sniffed resolutely, and began:

"It's 'Ilda, sir. Such a thing Mitchett and me never could 'ave
expected, comin' on us so sudden. I thought it best to bring 'er round,
poor girl. Of course, it's all the war. I've warned 'er a dozen times;
but there it is, comin' next month, and the man in France." Pierson
instinctively averted his gaze from the girl, who had not moved her eyes
from his face, which she scanned with a seeming absence of interest,
as if she had long given up thinking over her lot, and left it now to
others.

"That is sad," he said; "very, very sad."

"Yes," murmured Mrs. Mitchett; "that's what I tell 'Ilda."

The girl's glance, lowered for a second, resumed its impersonal scrutiny
of Pierson's face.

"What is the man's name and regime