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only signs by which his mother had read his deep distress were the stiffening of his small upper lip and the way in which he repeatedly raised his eye-brows, opening his eyes very wide the while. And only to-day did this distant memory supply its link of association; for Clive, when he came back to life, was constantly raising his eyebrows and opening his eyes very wide; and if he as constantly contrived to smile, she saw now that that had been because of her and because, for love of her, he could dissemble. A mother might give life; but even a mother could not give the zest for life. The war had left him a frightened bird huddled under a hedge with its wing broken. That was the truth of it. That was what Hester must have felt in him; helplessness; helplessness and beauty. Even her prosaic eye had been charmed by the bird’s beauty; commonplace young huntress as she had been, striding through the woods in search of prey.

But it was unjust; she knew it was unjust. Hatred made one unjust and horrible. She looked a moment longer at the dark fireplace and then, taking the matches, stooped and lighted the logs. Let us have more light, was the instinct within her. Let us face things.——— Own up and see yourself as you are; perhaps the merely jealous mother, unable to