"Mother," Jack said at last, "I'm afraid you ought to come in now."

"One moment, dear; I shall not see this again. Look!" Her eyes turned back to the crocus flowers. "They are my people."

Jack misunderstood her meaning; he lacked her gift of keen imagination.

"Do they grow wild in your home?" he asked, and turned his eyes away that he might not look upon the nakedness of this eternal, unhealed grief.

"Don't you see?" Theo murmured from the grass. "They are an army."

The sudden light leaped up in Helen's eyes.

"An army for an instant and for ever; an army that recks not of victory or of defeat. Gain and loss are one to them; the doom of battle is upon them before they have seen the sunlight; they fail and die, and it afflicts them nothing, for they are warriors to all eternity; the very earth around their feet is thick with spears."

The listeners held their breath as they heard; she was like a thing transfigured, full of light.

"See how weak and defenceless they are, how easily crushed under foot; and yet how erect and patient an army. There is not one that has cast away his colours as the roses do; not one that shrivels on the stalk in the shame of a withered heart. As each man's time is come, he falls where he stood; and a new soldier fills his vacant place, never turning to look where the dead comrade lies. Then in a little while all is over, and the place where

they died has forgotten them. Rank weeds of summer hide the withered husks and the bitter seed within. But so surely as spring comes back when winter is over, so surely shall our soldiers rise up from the dead, and stand in armoured ranks for battle, the weapon ready to the hand and every man in his place."

Long silence followed; then she turned with a sigh.

"Let us go, children; our spring is not yet come."

Jack was still silent as they carried her in, and his eyes were very sombre. Assuredly she would be justified of her belief; seed time and harvest shall not fail. Yet what use, when the seed is so bitter, and all the harvest is death?

CHAPTER XI

After Helen's death Jack spent two years studying in Paris. He then returned to London for a year's work in the hospitals, before going to Vienna, where he intended to finish his course of study. Helen's small legacy would have been enough, with his fru­gal habits, to cover his expenses till he could get a post in some hospital; but he took all opportunities to add to it by coaching, micro­scope work, and library research, and laid aside every spare shilling for Molly. He had at first hoped that she would come to live and study with him in Paris, but to all such sugges­tions she replied by cold letters saying that she "could not leave home." They still corre­sponded, but in a formal, set way, like strangers. Jack had sometimes tried to break down the barrier between them, but met with no response; her letters continued to arrive at stated times, always worded in the same conventional manner, always stiff with the same hard reserve. Apparently she had been taught to look upon him as a reprobate whose kin­ship disgraced her. The thought was bitter to him; but he accepted it, as he had accepted so many things.

One day, soon after his return from Paris, he received a letter, addressed in Molly's hand, but with a London post-mark. It was merely a curt announcement that she had come to town to attend the St. John's ambu­lance course and was now in Kensington, boarding with Aunt Sarah's town relatives, and that if he cared to call on Sunday after­noon he would find her in.

He went, of course, but with a desolate sense of the futility of things. This was the sister for whom he had been pinching and sav­ing, working and planning all these years; and he was going to call upon her ceremoni­ously, just as he had to call, now and then, on the wives of the professors. The only difference was that with his sister he was less sure of a welcome.

He found her in a terrible Early Victorian drawing-room, a tall girl, grave and self-con­tained, surrounded by thin-lipped, censorious women, whose eyes inspected him with freezing curiosity as he entered. Her own were stead­ily fixed on the floor, and the thick lashes hid their expression; but her mouth was set hard. He endured half an hour of small-talk, listen­ing for the rare sound of Molly's voice. She uttered only the barest commonplaces, and few enough of them, leaving the conversation as much as possible to the ladies of the house; but when she spoke the sound of her deep, resonant contralto, the lingering inflections of her sweet West-country speech, seemed to him, amid these arid wastes of shabby-genteel cockneydom, like a spring of water in a thirsty land. She wore a tuft of Cornish heather at her throat.

When he rose to go, she turned to the hostess.

"Mrs. Pepning, I will walk through the park with my brother; I shall be back in time for supper."

Mrs. Penning bit her lip. The Vicar, when entrusting his niece to her care, had warned

her that the brother, who lived in London and would be likely to call, was "not a suitable companion for a young girl." She had no in­tention of letting Molly walk alone with this black sheep of the family; and to send out a duenna this afternoon would interfere with arrangements already made. Really, it was very thoughtless of the girl.

"I am afraid I cannot leave the house to­day, my dear," she said; "but if you are particularly anxious to go out I am sure Mildred will not mind accompanying you. You must be back in half an hour, though, as she is going to evening service."

"Thank you," Molly answered; "but I need not trouble Mildred."

"My dear! I could not possibly let you walk home alone. It is not suitable for a young girl, especially a stranger to London like you."

Molly raised her eyes and looked at Jack. He interposed at once.

"I will see my sister home."

"Yes, of course," said Mrs. Penning nerv­ously; "but I think... Molly had better not go out while she is under my care, except with an older lady. Mr. Raymond is very particular, you know; and I am sure he would not like her to be seen in the park alone with a gentleman..."

"Even with her brother?"

Molly turned suddenly, with shining, dan­gerous eyes.

"No, especially with her brother. You are very kind, Mrs. Penning; but my brother and I have some family matters to discuss, and we would rather be alone. Shall we go, Jack?"

They went out in silence, while Mrs. Penning stood amazed. On the doorstep Molly turned to her brother, her nostrils quivering.

"Those women are spies," she said.

He accepted the statement in grave silence, acquiescing, and they walked on without further speech.

"Do you know what I came to London for?" she began at last, without turning her head.

"I know nothing, Molly; not even what sort of sister I have."

"I came to see you."

He turned, without comment, and looked at her. Her face was hard and resentful.

"I don't know what sort of brother I have, either, and I thought it was time to find out. I have more curiosity than you, it seems."

His mouth set in a sudden line, and the girl, watching him from under level brows, saw that she had stung him. He paused an instant before answering.

"I am glad you came," he said.

Molly flashed another look at him. The quick, passionate dilation of the nostrils trans­formed her face again.

"Are you? I'm not sure I am. It depends on..."

She broke off; then plunged on recklessly:

"Such as you are, whatever you are, you're the only near relative I've got. Don't you think we might as well know something about each other at first hand, now we're both grown up, instead of taking things for granted through other people? Or do you think blood relationships are all rubbish?"