The two of them had been talking, as they had been wont to talk, playing with the idea of such a life as this as a real life and not a make-believe. But the virtue had gone out of such play for Harry. Even now, as he did his best to respond to Jane and not to let her see that his heart was no longer in any game, he was thinking of the last time he had sat where he was sitting now, with Viola, and talked in something of the same way, but with how different a meaning behind the talk! The talk died down. In Jane’s sensitive little soul was the knowledge that Harry’s heart was not in it. She looked up at him and saw his eyes fixed on something beyond the green and russet of the trees in front of them, and caught the look of yearning in his face. "Aren’t you happy, Harry?" she asked. "I’ll go away and not bother you, if you’d like me to." He turned quickly to her, full of compunction that he should have failed her after all. He had been so determined that the children should see no difference in him. Why, indeed, should there be any towards them? He had looked forward to their return after Viola had gone away. His affection for them, because of their childhood, was in some ways nearer to his love for Viola than other affections of his life; they would console him for the loss of her. And they had done so; but his longing for her was so great, and no consolation was of much avail to ease it. "Of course I don’t want you to go away, dear," he said. "I’d rather have you with me than anybody. No, I’m not unhappy—perhaps a little sad sometimes. Lots of things have happened since you went away, you know. I shall be going away myself before long, and as long as the war lasts nothing will be quite like what it was before." "Is it only the war that makes you sad?" she asked. "If there’s anything else, I wish you’d tell me, now we’re alone together. Of course, with Pobbles I suppose I’m rather like a boy, and with you, too, when we’re all three together. But I’m not always like that—inside, I mean. I’m really more grown up than you’d think." Harry put his arm around her thin shoulders and gave her a fraternal hug. "You’re a dear," he said. "I don’t really think of you as like a boy. There’s something comforting about your being a girl, though I don’t think about you as being grown up, either." "Well then, tell me, Harry," she said, coaxingly. "We’re real friends, aren’t we? I’d tell you if there was anything that was making me unhappy. I suppose I should tell mother first, but after her I’d tell you—because we’re friends."