In the over-civilised and over-legislated world that came by a violent end in July 1914, the uncertainty of life had been little more than a pious phrase, spasmodically justified by events. Now it was an impious fact, vaguely or acutely felt almost every hour of the day—by none more acutely than by Helen Forsyth with her quick sensibilities and vivid brain. Even Mark admitted that she was keeping her head creditably on the whole; but in certain moods she was capable of demanding a drastic search for gun-emplacements in her own grounds or suspecting a secret store of ammunition among the ruins of Wynchcombe Abbey, all on the strength of a semi-German gardener dismissed years ago. Only last week a suspicious, Teutonic-looking individual had come to the back door and put the cook ‘all in a tremor’ by asking superfluous questions about the neighbourhood. And now this mysterious wanderer in the garden—at such an hour⸺! She was on her feet, brushing aside the tears that obscured her vision. But the shadow had vanished behind a bush and did not seem disposed to reappear. For a second she stood hesitating. If she called Mark, he would either laugh at her or scold her for not being in bed. The creature was probably harmless. She would creep downstairs quietly and explore. For all her nerves and fanciful fears, she was no coward in the grain. Hastily twisting up her hair, she slipped on a long opera coat and crept noiselessly down into the drawing-room. There she found that the French window leading on to the terrace had been left unlocked. ‘How careless of Mark!’ she murmured; and, with fluttering pulse, stepped out into the moonlight. There he was again! Summoning all her courage she went forward, uncertain even now what she meant to say. The shadowy figure had turned. It was coming towards her. Then—with a start of recognition she stopped dead. ‘Keith!’ she exclaimed softly, and could have laughed aloud in her relief. ‘Helen—what are you doing out here?’ he asked, an odd thrill in his low voice. ‘What are _you_ doing?’ she retorted. ‘Frightening me out of my life! I saw a suspicious-looking shadow; and—don’t laugh at me—I thought it might be a spy.’ ‘And you came down to tackle him alone! Just like you. Supposing it had been?’ ‘Oh—thank _good_ness it’s not! But don’t you ever give me away.’ Helen’s laugh ended in an involuntary shiver. ‘Cold?’ he asked quickly. ‘No—no. Let’s walk a little and feel normal.’ He moved on beside her, anxious, yet deeply content. Then: ‘Helen,’ he said suddenly, ‘if you’re going to let things get on your nerves like this, you’ll be done for. Your best chance is to take up some absorbing war-work; the harder the better.’