This point our heroine had reached. Something passed out of her soul, an undefinable something of which the zest for life is made, and as she felt the black waters of despair closing over her she almost gasped for breath. She turned away. "You will never understand. I think it very kind of you to make such plans for my enjoyment, but--to the Coronation of the English King I _will not go_. Leave me here--I have some writing to do--no need to be distressed on my account. My one regret is that my presence here, at such a time, should be a source of so much painfulness to us both." With cold courtesy the subject of the approaching Coronation was dropped, until the next day, when the appalling, the stupefying news of the postponement of the Coronation spread through the hushed streets of the great metropolis. The King was dying, was perhaps already dead. The King had undergone a critical operation and his life still hung in the balance. The King could not be crowned. Already the black wings of Death seemed to be stretched over the mighty city, with its millions and millions of inhabitants. The multitude was waiting in hushed expectancy, in breathless suspense. Hansie, walking through the streets with one of the men whose sympathy on board had been of such unspeakable comfort to her, never felt more unreal in her life. Her mind was in a maze, she groped about for words with which to clothe her thoughts, but groped in vain, for even the power of thought had been suspended for a time. Her companion, glancing at her face, asked suddenly, curiously: "Would you be glad if King Edward were to die?" There was a long pause, while the girl strove to analyse her feelings. At last she answered slowly, simply, truthfully: "No; I would be sorry." And in these words, good reader, when I think of them, I find a certain solution to the problem of her behaviour on many occasions when brought into close contact with her country's enemies. There was never anything personal in the most bitter feelings of resentment and hatred of her country's foes, and never at any time did she belong to the ranks of those among her fellow-patriots who deemed it an unpardonable crime to recognise and appreciate the good qualities possessed by them. A love of fair-play characterised her, even as a child, and it is certain that the cruel circumstances of the war developed this sense of justice to an abnormal extent, often bringing upon her, in later years, misunderstanding and distrust from those who should have been her friends. * * * * * It is June 28th, a glorious, cloudless summer's morn. Speeding swiftly, almost silently, cutting its way through the calm, blue waters of the English Channel, a passenger-boat is fast approaching Holland's shores. The hour is early, and of the few figures moving on the pier, one stands apart, watching intently, as the ship draws near.