"I do wish I could go out to the front." "With what object? You could do nothing to protect him, and he would only worry about you. Better stay at home, my dear, and try to possess your soul in patience. It is hard, I know; but remember you are not the only one." Brenda took the advice, and strove to calm herself by constant occupation. She made every sort of comfort she could think of for her husband, and sent him everything that might by the remotest chance be useful to him. This was her great solace, and her father, seeing how it cheered her, gave her every encouragement. But it was a terrible time. Every day brought some fresh sorrow. The Belmont and Graspan victories cheered the nation somewhat; but a period of gloom succeeded, and news came of Gatacre's reverse and the failure of Buller to cross the Tugela. It was then that the suspense became almost too much for Mrs. Burton, for Harold was in the thick of the fighting, and on the very scene of the disasters. But the long-expected blow fell in due time, and, as usual, when least anticipated. One morning Mr. Scarse came down first to breakfast, and, as usual, eagerly scanned the papers. When his daughter entered the room she saw at once that something dreadful had happened. "What is it, father?" she asked, and held out her hand for the _Daily Mail_. "Nothing, my dear--nothing!" was his answer. But he kept the paper in his hand. "Only the usual disasters. Oh, this unholy war!" "Harold--oh, father, tell me the truth--he is wounded--dead! Oh, Harold, Harold!" "No, no," cried her father, with eagerness, "he is not wounded." "Then he is killed!" shrieked Brenda. "Not at all; if he were I should tell you." She snatched the paper from his hand and spread it out; but tears blinded her, and she could not read a word. "For God's sake, tell me the worst!" was her cry. "Is my darling--is Harold----" "He is missing!" Mr. Scarse said roughly. "Don't look like that, Brenda. He may have been taken prisoner, and then he would be all right." "Missing!" echoed the poor young wife. "Oh, poor Harold, pray God he is not dead!" "Of course he's not. His name would be amongst the killed if he were. He is missing--that is all. He was taken prisoner, no doubt, at the passage of the Tugela. Hope for the best, Brenda." "Van Zwieten," she said faintly. "I hope this is none of his work." "Not it. If he had been in the neighborhood Wilfred would have let us know. This is only one of the ordinary chances of war. You should be thankful, my dear, that he isn't on the list of killed or wounded. The chances are that he is a prisoner, and in safety." "I hope so! I hope so! But, father, let us go down to the War Office!" "The War Office will know no more than is in this paper." "I want to make certain of that. Come, father." "My dear child, you have eaten nothing. You must have some breakfast first." "I can't eat."