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he told them to wait. After a few minutes Sheila asked him to send the constable out of hearing, as she wished to talk to him. After the constable had retired up the lane there was a terrible silence for several minutes. Patrick and Sheila both realised too late that William must have been in the house when they started on their journey to Dublin for the arms, and that he must have gone straight to Ballybor to warn the police of the impending ambuscade. They knew that, even if they were not sentenced to death, they could not escape a long term of imprisonment, and that they had been betrayed by their own brother, but would not—or could not.— realise that William had only done his duty. Suddenly Sheila burst into a passionate denouncement of William's treachery to his country and his own flesh and blood, to be stopped by Patrick with great difficulty, who, controlling his rising passion and terror by a great effort, implored William for their mother's sake to let them escape while there was yet

time. At any rate to let Sheila go—surely the British Government did not wage war on Women.

Poor William was torn between love for his brother and sister and his duty to his King. In those short moments he went through the agony of hell, knowing well that if he refused to let them escape he would carry for the rest of his life the brand of Cain; on the other hand, if he let them go he would not only be betraying his King, but also he would ruin his own career, and probably Blake's as well.

To William's great credit be it said, his sense of duty prevailed, and he refused to let them go ; and to his great relief the unhappy scene was cut short by the sudden appearance of Blake.

Shortly afterwards the constable returned, and reported to Blake that he had found a Red Cross car up the lane. Blake gave orders for the car to be brought on to the highroad, and after collecting his men, started for Ballybor with Patrick and Sheila prisoners in their own car.

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WHEN Colin March, a younger could tell a fine gesture. “It son of the famous diplomatist, makes fools," he said, “ of us played in a British embassy scoffers. It is as if God had garden abroad, his foreign nurse broken loose out of the churches. gave him a tortoise. “A useful Little new peers like my dear beast,” she explained: “it de- cousin Grax are becoming pavours cockroaches; they are trician. The rich are fairly its passion."

jumping through the needle's Colin wanted to see this eye-flocks of 'em-sheep at beneficent passion at work. So a gap." he captured one of the em- Colin was not to be carried bassy's many cockroaches, and off his own feet by any rush put it down in front of the tor to take arms. He made no toise's nose, like an early Chris- holy excuses about the omistian presented to a lion. The sion: his sense of humour tortoise eyed the offered feast, saved him from that. The and mused deeply. The cock- only kind of humbug that it roach did not muse. It was a would allow him to practise cockroach of action. Without was humbug conscious and any apparent need for reflec- gleeful-not Pecksniff's humtion it bolted for cover, like bug; only Sganarelle's. It a flash of blackness, right was a vital interest to him, into the tortoise's shell, and he demurely said, not to be hid itself in that profounder dead. And how could a ruling thinker's armpit.

class rule from the tomb ? The cadet of a dynasty of Might not one honestly praise ambassadors was charmed with Father Damien without rushthe cockroach's wit. He filed ing off to nurse lepers ? Bethe whole affair in a pigeon- sides, his elder brother was hole of his 'cute little mind. badly wounded already ; life, As he grew up he would often he pointed out, might at any chuckle to think of it. Piquant moment become vastly more parallels would occur to him. worth living than ever.

When Colin was twenty the And yet the war, and the war came. C'est beau, ça,” way that his caste thought he said, when he saw what about it, were not to be easily was done on the spot by most talked out of his path. Like of the young men that he knew. lions, they straddled across it ; He was a connoisseur. He like tortoises, they impended

he told them to wait. After a few minutes Sheila asked him to send the constable out of hearing, as she wished to talk to him. After the constable had retired up the lane there was a terrible silence for several minutes. Patrick and Sheila both realised too late that William must have been in the house when they started on their journey to Dublin for the arms, and that he must have gone straight to Ballybor to warn the police of the impending ambuscade. They knew that, even if they were not sentenced to death, they could not escape a long term of imprisonment, and that they had been betrayed by their own brother, but would not—or could not.— realise that William had only done his duty. Suddenly Sheila burst into a passionate denouncement of William's treachery to his country and his own flesh and blood, to be stopped by Patrick with great difficulty, who, controlling his rising passion and terror by a great effort, implored William for their mother's sake to let them escape while there was yet

time. At any rate to let Sheila go—surely the British Government did not wage war On Women.

Poor William was torn between love for his brother and sister and his duty to his King. In those short moments he went through the agony of hell, knowing well that if he refused to let them escape he would carry for the rest of his life the brand of Cain; on the other hand, if he let them go he would not only be betraying his King, but also he would ruin his own career, and probably Blake's as well.

To William's great credit be it said, his sense of duty prevailed, and he refused to let them go ; and to his great relief the unhappy scene was cut short by the sudden appearance of Blake.

Shortly afterwards the constable returned, and reported to Blake that he had found a Red Cross car up the lane. Blake gave orders for the car to be brought on to the highroad, and after collecting his men, started for Ballybor with Patrick and Sheila prisoners in their own car.

HONOURS EASY.

BY C. E. MONTAGUE.

WHEN Colin March, a younger son of the famous diplomatist, played in a British embassy garden abroad, his foreign nurse gave him a tortoise. “A useful beast,” she explained: “it devours cockroaches; they are its passion.” Colin wanted to see this beneficent passion at work. So he captured one of the embassy's many cockroaches, and put it down in front of the tortoise's nose, like an early Christian presented to a lion. The tortoise eyed the offered feast, and mused deeply. The cockroach did not muse. It was a cockroach of action. Without any apparent need for reflection it bolted for cover, like a flash of blackness, right into the tortoise's shell, and hid itself in that profounder thinker's armpit. The cadet of a dynasty of ambassadors was charmed with the cockroach's wit. He filed the whole affair in a pigeonhole of his 'cute little mind. As he grew up he would often chuckle to think of it. Piquant parallels would occur to him. When Colin was twenty the war came. “C'est beau, ca,” he said, when he saw what was done on the spot by most of the young men that he knew. He was a connoisseur. He

could tell a fine gesture. “It makes fools,” he said, “ of us scoffers. It is as if God had broken loose out of the churches. Little new peers like my dear cousin Grax are becoming patrician. The rich are fairly jumping through the needle's eye—flocks of 'em—sheep at a gap.” Colin was not to be carried off his own feet by any rush to take arms. He made no holy excuses about the omission: his sense of humour Saved him from that. The only kind of humbug that it would allow him to practise was humbug conscious and gleeful—not Pecksniff's humbug; only Sganarelle's. It was a vital interest to him, he demurely said, not to be dead. And how could a ruling class rule from the tomb { Might not one honestly praise Father Damien without rushing off to nurse lepers? Besides, his elder brother was badly wounded already ; life, he pointed out, might at any moment become vastly more worth living than ever. And yet the war, and the way that his caste thought about it, were not to be easily talked out of his path. Like lions, they straddled across it ; like tortoises, they impended he told them to wait. After a few minutes Sheila asked him to send the constable out of hearing, as she wished to talk to him. After the constable had retired up the lane there was a terrible silence for several minutes. Patrick and Sheila both realised too late that William must have been in the house when they started on their journey to Dublin for the arms, and that he must have gone straight to Ballybor to warn the police of the impending ambuscade. They knew that, even if they were not sentenced to death, they could not escape a long term of imprisonment, and that they had been betrayed by their own brother, but would not—or could not.— realise that William had only done his duty. Suddenly Sheila burst into a passionate denouncement of William's treachery to his country and his own flesh and blood, to be stopped by Patrick with great difficulty, who, controlling his rising passion and terror by a great effort, implored William for their mother's sake to let them escape while there was yet

time. At any rate to let Sheila go—surely the British Government did not wage war on Women.

Poor William was torn between love for his brother and sister and his duty to his King. In those short moments he went through the agony of hell, knowing well that if he refused to let them escape he would carry for the rest of his life the brand of Cain; on the other hand, if he let them go he would not only be betraying his King, but also he would ruin his own career, and probably Blake's as well.

To William's great credit be it said, his sense of duty prevailed, and he refused to let them go; and to his great relief the unhappy scene was cut short by the sudden appearance of Blake.

Shortly afterwards the constable returned, and reported to Blake that he had found a Red Cross car up the lane. Blake gave orders for the car to be brought on to the highroad, and after collecting his men, started for Ballybor with Patrick and Sheila prisoners in their own car.

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