f.

"What are you going to do when it's over?" he asked her. "You won't give
up the fight, will you, whatever happens?" She had not known till then
that he had been taking any interest in her work.

"No," she answered with a laugh, "no matter what happens, I shall always
want to be in it."

"Good lad," he said, patting her on the shoulder. "It will be an ugly
world that will come out of all this hate and anger. The Lord will want
all the help that He can get."

"And you don't forget our compact, do you?" he continued, "that I am to
be your backer. I want to be in it too."

She shot a glance at him. He was looking at the portrait of that old
Ironside Allway who had fought and died to make a nobler England, as he
had dreamed. A grim, unprepossessing gentleman, unless the artist had
done him much injustice, with high, narrow forehead, and puzzled, staring
eyes.

She took the cigarette from her lips and her voice trembled a little.

"I want you to be something more to me than that, sir," she said. "I
want to feel that I'm an Allway, fighting for the things we've always had
at heart. I'll try and be worthy of the name."

Her hand stole out to him across the table, but she kept her face away
from him. Until she felt his grasp grow tight, and then she turned and
their eyes met.

"You'll be the last of the name," he said. "Something tells me that. I'm
glad you're a fighter. I always prayed my child might be a fighter."

Arthur had not been home since the beginning of the war. Twice he had
written them to expect him, but the little fleet of mine sweepers had
been hard pressed, and on both occasions his leave had been stopped at
the last moment. One afternoon he turned up unexpectedly at the
hospital. It was a few weeks after the Conscription Act had been passed.

Joan took him into her room at the end of the ward, from where, through
the open door, she could still keep watch. They spoke in low tones.

"It's done you good," said Joan. "You look every inch the jolly Jack
Tar." He was hard and tanned, and his eyes were marvellously bright.

"Yes," he said, "I love the sea. It's clean and strong."

A fear was creeping over her. "Why have you come back?" she asked.

He hesitated, keeping his eyes upon the ground.

"I don't suppose you will agree with me," he said. "Somehow I felt I had
to."

A Conscientious Objector. She might have guessed it. A "Conchy," as
they would call him in the Press