one for England, all these years of her
struggle? His carelessness, his indifference returned upon him--his
mad and selfish refusal, day by day, to give his mind, or his body,
or his goods, to the motherland that bore him.

'_Is it nothing to you, all ye that pass by?_'

No--it had been nothing to him. But Desmond, his boy, had given
everything. And the death-struggle was still going on. '_Each one of
us must fight on to the end._' Before his eyes there passed the
spectacle of the Army, as he had actually seen it--a division, for
instance, on the march near the Salient, rank after rank of young
faces, the brown cheeks and smiling eyes, the swing of the lithe
bodies. And while he sat there in the quiet of the April evening,
thousands of boys like Desmond were offering those same lithe bodies
to the Kaiser's guns without murmur or revolt because England asked
it. Now he knew what it meant--_now he knew_!

There was a knock at the door, and the sound of something heavy
descending. The Squire gave a dull 'Come in.' Forest entered,
dragging a large bale behind him. He looked nervously at his master.

'These things have just come from France, sir.'

The Squire started. He walked over in silence to look while Forest
opened the case. Desmond's kit, his clothes, his few books, a
stained uniform, a writing-case, with a number of other
miscellaneous things.

Forest spread them out on the floor, his lips trembling. On several
nights before the end Desmond had asked for him, and he had shared
the Squire's watch.

'That'll do,' said the Squire presently; 'I'll look over them
myself!'

Forest went away. After shutting the door he saw Elizabeth coming
along the library passage, and stopped to speak to her.

'The things have just come from France, Miss,' he said in a low
voice.

Elizabeth hesitated, and was turning back, when the library door
opened and the Squire called her.

'Yes, Mr. Mannering.'

'Will you come here, please, a moment?'

She entered the room, and the Squire closed the door behind her,
pointing mutely to the things on the floor.

The tears sprang to her eyes. She knelt down to look at them.

'Do you remember anything about this?' he said, holding out a little
book. It was the pocket Anthology she had found for Desmond on the
day of his going into camp. As she looked through it she saw a
turned-down leaf, and seemed still to hear the boy's voice, as he
hung over her shoulder translating the epigram-