It was arranged at that, and the elders drove off. Peter raised his hat
to Sir Robert, who turned up the street, and together he and Hilda
crossed over the wide thoroughfare and started down for the park.

There was silence for a little, and it was Peter who broke it.

"Just before breakfast," he said, "you asked me what I should do, and I
had no chance to reply. Well, they were talking of it in the vestry just
now, and I've made up my mind. I shall write to-night to the Bishop and
ask for a chaplaincy."

They walked on a hundred yards or so in silence again. Then Hilda broke
it. "Peter," she began, and stopped. He glanced at her quickly, and saw
in a minute that the one word had spoken truly to him.

"Oh, Hilda," he said, "do you really care all that? You can't possibly!
Oh, if we were not here, and I could tell you all I feel! But, dear, I
love you; I know now that I have loved you for months, and it is just
because I love you that I must go."

"Peter," began Hilda again, and again stopped. Then she took a grip of
herself, and spoke out bravely. "Oh, Peter," she said, "you've guessed
right. I never meant you to--at least, not yet, but it is terrible to
think of you going out there. I suppose I ought to be glad and proud, and
in a way I am, but you don't seem the right person for it. It's wasting
you. And I don't know what I shall do without you. You've become the
centre of my life. I count on seeing you, and on working with you. If
you go, you, you may ... Oh, I can't say it! I ought not to say all this.
But..." She broke off abruptly.