The sun rose in splendor, and the whole fresh and dewy world was sparkling when Angela was awakened by a terrible sound--the crash of bursting shells. She looked toward the woods a mile away and heard through the stillness of the autumn morning the fearful thunder, the shouts and cries of conflict. Almost immediately she saw half a dozen ambulances with their attendants driving into the open field and making straight for the farmhouse. She knew well what it meant. Those were the wounded seeking a place of refuge. As the ambulances reached the house she opened her door and ran quickly down the narrow stair. The passage door was wide open, and two soldiers, carrying a stretcher, were coming in. On it lay a figure covered up in a blue cloak. They took their burden and laid it down in the room to the right on the ground floor. Following them came a surgeon, grimy, bloody, anxious-eyed, but cool. He scarcely saw Angela, and paid no heed to her, but followed the stretcher into the little room. Then Angela heard him say, in a quick voice: “He is gone; there is nothing more to be done here, but plenty to be done outside.” He passed again through the hall, followed by the two soldiers. Three stretchers, with wounded men groaning and moaning in their agony, were carried into the narrow hall. Something quite outside of her own volition made Angela walk toward the room in which the dead officer lay. As she reached the door she felt a hand upon her arm, and the surgeon was saying to her: “Excuse me, but you had better not go in there. The officer is dead and much disfigured.” “What is his name?” asked Angela. “Captain Neville Tremaine,” was the surgeon’s answer. “Killed leading the Forlorn Hope; as brave a man as ever lived or died.” * * * * * One night, a week later, Colonel and Mrs. Tremaine sat together in the library at Harrowby. Usually they were alone, but since the family circle had grown so pitifully small, Lyddon had left his ancient habitat, the old study, and sat with them in the evenings. He was pretending to read, and so was Colonel Tremaine, but both were really absorbed in reverie. Mrs. Tremaine, with more self-possession than either, sat knitting. Lyddon, watching her furtively, thought how like she was to those Spartan women who bade their sons return with their shields or upon them. Only with Mrs. Tremaine this sublime courage was accompanied with a gentleness and softness like a Lesbian air. The stillness remained unbroken for an hour, when there was a sound of hoofs and wheels upon the carriage drive. As they listened the hall door was quickly opened and some one entered. “That is Angela,” said Mrs. Tremaine. And the next moment Angela entered the library. She wore a black gown, which Mrs. Tremaine instantly noticed. The two women, looking into each other’s eyes, opened their arms, and then were clasped together. “Neville is gone!” cried Angela. “He is with Richard.” CHAPTER XXIII