I sent
you from me, Joan, but so long as I could hold myself upright and get
about, I would not listen. I am a hard, grim old woman, and I took it
upon myself to judge, which is after all a thing we should leave to God.
This is my punishment--you are so near to me, yet I cannot lift a hand
to touch you. I shall never feel your fingers clinging to mine again."

"Oh, hush, hush, Aunt Janet," Joan pleaded. "Why should you talk of
punishment?"

"When you were a child," the old voice went on again, "you would run to
me at the end of your day's playing. 'Read me a story,' you would say,
and then we would sit hand in hand while I read aloud to you something
you knew almost by heart. When I dream now I feel your little warm hands
in mine, but I can't feel your lips, Joan, not even when you lay them
against my hand as you do now. Nor your tears, dear, silly child, I have
made you cry with my grumbling. Joan, look up and see the happiness in
my eyes to have you back."

And Joan looked. "I never meant to hurt you as I did, Aunt Janet," she
said; "do you believe that?"

Just for a second the lids closed down over the dark eyes. "I hurt
myself," Aunt Janet answered, "far more than you hurt me. Put your face
down close, so that I can kiss you just once, and then you shall draw up
a chair and we will talk sensibly. Nurse will be severe to-night if I
excite myself."

Miss Abercrombie put her head in at the door presently and suggested
taking Joan downstairs to tea. "Nurse is just bringing up yours," she
said. "I know from the expression of her face that she thinks it is time
that you had a little rest."

"Very well," Aunt Janet agreed, "take her away, Ann, but bring her back
again before I go to bed. Has any news come through yet?"

Miss Abercrombie shook her head. "Colonel Rutherford has just gone over
to the station to find out," she added.

Uncle John came back with no further information. He was evidently in a
strong state of agitation, he confessed that the question which the
Government was settling was like a weight on his own conscience. "It is
a question of honour," he kept repeating, "England cannot stand aside."

"'Know we not well how seventy times seven
Wronging our mighty arms with rust,
We dared not do the will of Heaven,
Lest Heaven should hurl us in the dust.'"

Miss Abercrombie quoted to him.

He stared at her with puzzled old eyes. "I don't think that can apply to
England," he