into her soul and hid there. Was it possible that Hugh, brilliant,
buoyant, temperamental Hugh was--that? The days went on, and the cold,
vile thing stayed coiled in her soul. It was on the very day war was
declared that young Hugh injured his knee, a bad injury. When he was
carried home, when the doctor cut away his clothes and bent over the
swollen leg and said wise things about the "bursa," the boy's eyes were
hard to meet. They constantly sought hers with a look questioning and
anxious. Words were impossible, but she tried to make her glance and
manner say: "I trust you. Not for worlds would I believe you did it on
purpose."

And finally the lad caught her hand and with his mouth against it spoke.
"_You_ know I didn't do it on purpose, Mummy."

And the cold horror fled out of her heart, and a great relief flooded
her.

On a day after that Brock came home from camp, and, though he might not
tell it in words, she knew that he would sail shortly for France. She
kept the house full of brightness and movement for the three days he had
at home, yet the four--young Hugh on crutches now--clung to each other,
and on the last afternoon she and Brock were alone for an hour. They had
sat just here after tennis, in the hazy October weather, and pink-brown
leaves had floated down with a thin, pungent fragrance and lay on the
stone steps in vague patterns. Scarlet geraniums bloomed back of Brock's
head and made a satisfying harmony with the copper of his tanned face.
They fell to silence after much talking, and finally she got out
something which had been in her mind but which it had been hard to say.

"Brocky," she began, and jabbed the end of her racket into her foot so