She went over to the room where the women were sewing, and borrowed a pair of scissors; then she came back and started to cut off the trousers where they were marked. The cloth was old and worn, but it was, nevertheless, stiff and hard, and her scissors were dull. Men spent their time in sharpening other things than women’s tools during those days in Richmond, and her slender fingers made hard work of the amputations. Beside, she was prone to stop and think and dream of her soldier boy while engaged in this congenial work. She had not finished the alteration, therefore, when she heard a step in the hall. She caught up the trousers, striving to conceal them, entirely forgetful of the jacket which lay on the table. “Oh,” said Mrs. Varney, as she came into the room; “you haven’t gone yet?” “No,” faltered the girl; “we don’t assemble for a little while, and——” “Don’t assemble?” “I mean for the party. It doesn’t begin for half an hour yet, and——” “Oh; then you have plenty of time.” “Yes,” said Caroline. “But I will have to go now, sure enough.” She turned away and, as she did so, her scissors fell clattering to the floor. “You dropped your scissors, my dear,” said Mrs. Varney. “I thought I heard something fall,” she faltered in growing confusion. She came back for her scissors, and, in her agitation and nervousness, she dropped one of the pieces of trouser leg on the floor. “What are you making, Caroline?” asked Mrs. Varney, looking curiously at the little huddled-up soiled piece of grey on the carpet, while Caroline made a desperate grab at it. “Oh, just altering an old—dress, Mrs. Varney. That’s all.” Mrs. Varney looked at her through her glasses. As she did so, Caroline’s agitated movement caused the other trouser leg, with its half-severed end hanging from it, to dangle over her arm. “And what is that?” asked Mrs. Varney. “Oh—that’s—er—one of the sleeves,” answered Caroline desperately, hurrying out in great confusion. Mrs. Varney laughed softly to herself. As she did so, her glance fell upon the little heap of grey on the table. She picked it up and opened it. It was a grey jacket, a soldier’s jacket. It looked as if it might be about Wilfred’s size. There was a bullet hole in the breast, and there was a dull brown stain around the opening. Mrs. Varney kissed the worn coat. She saw it all now. “For Wilfred,” she whispered. “He has probably got it from some dead soldier at the hospital, and Caroline’s dress that she was altering——” She clasped the jacket tightly to her breast, looked up, and smiled and prayed through her tears. CHAPTER V THE UNFAITHFUL SERVANT