"Thanks, awfully," he said unsteadily. "She'll think a lot of that, just
as I do--and I know she'd wish you the same."

She made no reply to that, and as she handed the picture back to him, he
saw that her hands were trembling, and he had a sudden conviction that,
if she had been Sally Berkeley, her eyes would have been full of tears.
As she was Sybil Gaylord, however, there were no tears there, only a
look that he never forgot. The look of one much older, protective,
maternal almost, and as if she were gazing back at Sally Berkeley and
himself from a long way ahead on the road of life. He supposed it was
the way most English people felt nowadays. He had surprised it so often
on all their faces, that he could not help speaking of it.

"You all think we Americans are awfully young and raw, don't you?" he
questioned.

"Oh, no, not that," she deprecated. "Young perhaps for these days,
yes--but it is more that you--that your country is so--so unsuffered.
And we don't want you to suffer!" she added quickly.

Yes, that was it! He understood now, and, heavens, how fine it was! Old
England was wounded deep--deep. What she suffered herself she was too
proud to show; but out of it she wrought a great maternal care for the
newcomer. Yes, it _was_ fine--he hoped his country would understand.

Miss Gaylord rose. "There are Gerald and father looking for you," she
said, "and I must go now." She held out her hand. "Thank you for letting
me see her picture, and for everything you said about Captain
Sherwood--for _everything_, remember--I want you to remember."