And as she read, those overworked, willing servants the body and the brain of the body, roused themselves, as in crisis they always do, to meet the demands of the shocked spirit. She felt the clogging weakness drawing away from her as a cloud draws away from a hill-side. She turned from a remembered past that had seemed the extreme of trouble to a future that made that past a childish thing. War.... Deliberately she put aside the emotions that she owed the event. ‘England,’ ‘Right,’ ‘Wrong,’ ‘Victory,’ ‘Sacrifice,’ ‘Our Fleet’—these were words that could wait: it was first necessary to comprehend its personal significance. This war meant—it meant danger: and before this danger, she saw already, one would be helpless: between this danger and Justin one would not be able to interpose body or soul.... This—she tried to be very clear—this was war—man’s war—a dragon from the fairy tales come to overwhelming, incredible flesh and blood life.... It was a week old and already it was clamouring for its food.... ‘Your King and Country want you.’... Father had volunteered—all decent men had to volunteer—always—in a war.... So Justin ... if Justin ... but surely Justin wouldn’t have to go? At any rate, not for months and months.... Why should Justin go? the only son of his mother.... Justin would surely understand that it was not his duty ... not yet anyhow.... He could do things at home.... No need—no need.... But if Justin went.... All decent men went.... He would go—he would go—he would go in spite of all—she would have to watch him go.... And there were more ways than one, it seemed, of losing Justin.... She turned on her pillow and abandoned herself to terror—a terror beyond the decencies. She was wrenched and torn with weeping, frantic in her fear for him. He might suffer.... He might be exposed to bodily torture.... He might die ... be gone from her for ever—for ever—like a candle blown out.... In six months—in three months—there might be no Justin—anywhere—any more.... And at that she bit and tore at her wrist lest she should scream aloud. It was a madness that spent itself at last, as such things must, leaving her sane and heavy-eyed and ashamed. And in that desolate lull she could hear the voice, cold, disloyal, of another subtler fear— Suppose—suppose he did not go?... When Aunt Adela came back an hour later, stuffed to bursting with gossip that must on no account be imparted to the invalid, she found Laura sitting up in bed, her eyes quick and intelligent, her passivity a thing of the past. She acclaimed her. “My dear, you’re better! You’ve got quite a colour.” “Yes.” Laura touched the paper beside her. “You ought to have told me. Why didn’t you tell me?” Aunt Adela looked guilty. “Did I leave——? I never meant——My child, you weren’t fit——Laura, what are you doing?” Laura threw back the sheets.