“It's 'Ilda, sir. Such a thing Mitchett and me never could 'ave expected, comin' on us so sudden. I thought it best to bring 'er round, poor girl. Of course, it's all the war. I've warned 'er a dozen times; but there it is, comin' next month, and the man in France.” Pierson instinctively averted his gaze from the girl, who had not moved her eyes from his face, which she scanned with a seeming absence of interest, as if she had long given up thinking over her lot, and left it now to others. “That is sad,” he said; “very, very sad.” “Yes,” murmured Mrs. Mitchett; “that's what I tell 'Ilda.” The girl's glance, lowered for a second, resumed its impersonal scrutiny of Pierson's face. “What is the man's name and regiment? Perhaps we can get leave for him to come home and marry Hilda at once.” Mrs. Mitchett sniffed. “She won't give it, sir. Now, 'Ilda, give it to Mr. Pierson.” And her voice had a real note of entreaty. The girl shook her head. Mrs. Mitchett murmured dolefully: “That's 'ow she is, sir; not a word will she say. And as I tell her, we can only think there must 'ave been more than one. And that does put us to shame so!” But still the girl made no sign. “You speak to her, sir; I'm really at my wit's end.” “Why won't you tell us?” said Pierson. “The man will want to do the right thing, 'I'm sure.” The girl shook her head, and spoke for the first time. “I don't know his name.” Mrs. Mitchett's face twitched. “Oh, dear!” she said: “Think of that! She's never said as much to us.” “Not know his name?” Pierson murmured. “But how—how could you—” he stopped, but his face had darkened. “Surely you would never have done such a thing without affection? Come, tell me!” “I don't know it,” the girl repeated. “It's these Parks,” said Mrs. Mitchett, from behind her handkerchief. “And to think that this'll be our first grandchild and all! 'Ilda is difficult; as quiet, as quiet; but that stubborn—” Pierson looked at the girl, who seemed, if anything, less interested than ever. This impenetrability and something mulish in her attitude annoyed him. “I can't think,” he said, “how you could so have forgotten yourself. It's truly grievous.” Mrs. Mitchett murmured: “Yes, sir; the girls gets it into their heads that there's going to be no young men for them.” “That's right,” said the girl sullenly. Pierson's lips grew tighter. “Well, what can I do for you, Mrs. Mitchett?” he said. “Does your daughter come to church?” Mrs. Mitchett shook her head mournfully. “Never since she had her byke.” Pierson rose from his chair. The old story! Control and discipline undermined, and these bitter apples the result!