in front of the
boards that displayed the contents bill of the morning paper before the
windows of the village stationer's. Recognising Eileen Cavendish,
Betty quickened her pace, but as she drew near the group dispersed and
Mrs. Cavendish entered the shop. Betty stopped for an instant as the
flaring letters on the poster became visible, stared, took a couple of
paces and stopped again opposite the boards; then she gave a little
gasp, and with a thumping heart entered the low doorway of the little
shop. The next moment she collided with Eileen Cavendish who was
blundering out, holding an open newspaper in front of her. Her face
was white under the shadow of her broad-brimmed hat, and her blue eyes
like those of a terrified child.

"Have you heard?" she said, and thrust the sheet under Betty's eyes.
"There's been a big action.... Our losses are published, but no
details."

"Names?" cried Betty. "Oh, let me see!"

"Only the ships that have gone down. Our husbands' ships aren't
mentioned."

"Wait while I get a paper," said Betty. "I shan't be a second. What
are you going to do?"

The other considered a moment. "I shall go and see Mrs. Gascoigne,"
she replied. "Will you come too? She may have heard something."

Betty bought her paper and rejoined Eileen Cavendish in the street.

"Poor Mrs. Thatcher..." she said. "Did you see? Her husband's
Destroyer----"

"I know. And there are others, too. There must be five or six wives
up here whose ships have gone---- Oh, it's too dreadful ..." She was
silent a moment while her merciless imagination ran riot. "I couldn't
bear it!" she said piteously. "I couldn't bear it! I didn't whine
when Barbara was taken. I thought I might have another baby.... But I
couldn't have another Bill."

"Hush," said Betty, as if soothing a child. "We don't know yet. We
mustn't take the worst for granted till we know. I expect we should
have heard by now if--if----" She couldn't finish the sentence.

They reached the door of Mrs. Gascoigne's lodgings and the landlady
opened the door. Her round, good-natured face wore an air of concern.

"She's just awa' to Mrs. Thatcher, west yonder. Will ye no' step
inside and bide a wee? She'll no' be long, a'm thinkin'."

She preceded them into the low-ceilinged parlour, with the
horsehair-covered sofa and the Family Bible on the little table in the
window, that had been a haven to so many faint-hearted ones during the
past