..!" Her voice broke at
last, and she turned sideways and buried her face in her hands.

"But you _do_," said Betty with gentle insistence.

The door opened and Mrs. Gascoigne entered. There was moisture in her
fine grey eyes. "I'm so glad you two have come to keep me company,"
she said. She walked to the mirror over the fireplace and turned her
back on her visitors for a moment while she appeared to adjust her hat.
"I've been helping poor little Mrs. Thatcher to pack. She has had a
telegram, poor child, and she's off South by the afternoon train."

She turned round, still manipulating hat-pins with raised hands, and in
answer to the unspoken question in her guests' faces, nodded sadly.
"Yes," she said. "But they've got his body. She's going to Newcastle."

"Have you had any news yourself?" asked Betty. "We have heard nothing."

"No," replied their hostess. "Nothing, except that the hospital ships
went out last night. I expect the Destroyers got back some time before
the big ships, and we shall hear later in the day. Rob will telegraph
to me directly he gets into harbour, I know."

She spoke with calm conviction, as if wars and rumours of wars held no
terrors for her. "And now," she said, smiling to them both, "let's be
charwomen and drink tea in the middle of the forenoon!" She moved to
the door and opened it, and as she did so a knock sounded along the
tiny passage from the door that opened into the street.

Eileen Cavendish was busy in front of the glass, and half turned,
holding a diminutive powder-box in one hand and a scrap of swans-down
in the other.

"Yes," they heard the voice of Mrs. Gascoigne saying in the passage,
"I'm here--is that for me?" There was the sound of paper tearing and a
little silence. Then they heard her voice again. "Have you any others
in your wallet--is there one for Mrs. Standish or Mrs. Cavendish?
They're both here."

"I hae ane for Mistress Cavendish," replied a boy's clear treble. "An'
there was ane for Mistress Standish a while syne; it's biding at her
hoose."

Betty jumped to her feet. "What's that?" she cried. "A telegram?"
Mrs. Gascoigne entered the room holding an orange-coloured envelope and
handed it to Eileen Cavendish. "Yours is at your lodging," she said to
Betty. Her face was very pale.

With trembling fingers Mrs. Cavendish tore open the envelope. She gave
a quick glance at the contents and sat down abruptly. Then, with her
hands at her si