"Petty?" said Arthur in fine scorn. "_You_ couldn't be petty. But I'm afraid I'm still 'frightfully' English, and I've still got astigmatism in one eye--are you sure you can overlook these blemishes? ... But seriously, Lizbeth--if I never come back to you, if I am one of the 'costs,' if all you and I are to have together, O my beloved, is just this one perfect afternoon, it will still be all right. Won't it? You will laugh and be your own gallant self, and know that I am loving you and waiting for you--farther on. It will be all right, Lizbeth?" She nodded, smiling at him bravely. "Then kiss me, my very own." * * * * * The days drew in, and the Setons settled down for the winter. James Seton occupied himself for several hours in the day writing a history of the district, and found it a great interest. He said little about the war, and told his daughter he had prayed for grace to hold his peace; but he was a comforter to the people round when the war touched their homes. Elizabeth was determined that she would have busy days. She became the Visitor for the district for the Soldiers' and Sailors' Families Association; she sang at war-concerts; she amused her father and Buff; she knitted socks and wrote letters. She went to Glasgow as often as she could be spared to visit her friends in the Gorbals, and came back laden with tales for her father--tales that made him laugh with tears in his eyes, for it was "tragical mirth." To mothers who lost their sons she was a welcome visitor. They never felt her out of place, or an embarrassment, this tall golden-haired creature, as she sat on a wooden chair by the kitchen fire and listened and understood and cried with them. They brought out their pitiful treasures for her--the half-finished letter that had been found in "Jimmy's" pocket when death overtook him, the few French coins, the picture-postcard of his wee sister--and she held them tenderly and reverently while they told the tale of their grief.