the same impression on Farrell as she had on Bridget, of
extreme--absurd--youthfulness. He guessed her age about nineteen,
perhaps younger.

'I'm afraid the war will go on,' he said, kindly. 'We are only now just
finding out our deficiencies.'

Nelly sighed.

'I know--it's _awful_ how we want guns and shells! My husband says it
makes him savage to see how we lose men for want of them. _Why_ are we
so short? Whose fault is it?'

A spot of angry colour had risen in her cheek. It was the dove defending
her mate. The change was lovely, and Farrell, with his artist's eye,
watched it eagerly. But he shook his head.

'It's nobody's fault. It's all on such a scale--unheard of! Nobody could
have guessed before-hand--unless like Germany, we had been preparing for
years to rob and murder our neighbours. Well, Mrs. Sarratt, I must be
going on. But I wanted to say, that if we could do anything for
you--please command us. We live about twenty miles from here. My sister
hopes she may come and see you. And we have a big library at Carton. If
there are any books you want--'

'Oh, how _very_ kind of you!' said Nelly gratefully. She had risen and
was standing beside him, looking at him with her dark, frank eyes. 'But
indeed I shall get on very well. There's a war workroom in Manchester,
which will send me work. And I shall try and help with the sphagnum
moss. There's a notice up near here, asking people to help. 'And