said. "And in this case the people won't let them. We must
have war."

A curious, restless spirit seemed to have invaded the household. Joan
sat with Aunt Janet for a little after dinner till the nurse said it was
time for bed, after that she and Miss Abercrombie, talking only in fits
and starts, waited up for Colonel Rutherford, who had once more tramped
down to the station in search of news.

"Nothing has come through," he had to admit on his return; "but I have
arranged with the people of the telegraph office to send on a message
should it come. We had better get off to bed meanwhile."

Tired as she was, Joan fell asleep almost at once, to dream of
Dick--Dick attired, through some connection of her thoughts, in shining
armour with a sword in his hand. The ringing of a bell woke her, and
then the sound of people whispering in the hall. She was out of bed in a
second, and with a dressing-gown half pulled about her, she ran to the
top of the stairs. The hall was lit up, the front door open. Uncle John
was at it, talking to a man outside; Miss Abercrombie stood a little
behind him, a telegram form in her hand. She looked up at the sound of
Joan's feet. "It's war," she called softly. "We declared war to-night."

From somewhere further along the passage there was the abrupt sound of a
door being thrown open. "Miss Abercrombie, Colonel Rutherford," the
nurse's voice called, "quick, quick! I am afraid Miss Rutherford is
dying! Someone must run for the doctor at once, please."

CHAPTER XXVII

"Life is good, joy runs high,
Between English earth and sky;
Death is death, but we shall die
To the song on your bugles blown--England,
To the stars on your bugles blown."

W. E. HENLEY.

Dick went out into the still night air from the close atmosphere of
Joan's room, his mind a seething battleground of emotions--anger, and
hurt pride, and a still small sense of pain, which as time passed grew
so greatly in proportion that it exceeded both the other sensations. He
had said very bitterly to Joan that she had broken his dream, but,
because it had been broken, it none the less had the power to hurt
intolerably. Each fragment throbbed with a hot sense of injustice and
self-pity. He had not the slightest idea what to do with himself: every
prospect seemed equally distasteful. He walked, to begin with, furiously
and rather aimlessly down in the direction of