Then reaching out, he took her hand in his.  His voice deepened and strengthened.

’Elizabeth!—­be my friend—­my children’s friend.  Bring your poor mother here—­and your sister—­till Pamela goes.  Then tell me—­what you decide.  You shall give me no pledge—­no promise.  You shall be absolutely free.  But together let us do a bit of work, a bit of service.’

She looked up.  The emotion, the sweetness in her face dazzled him.

‘Yes,’ she said gravely—­’I will stay.’

He drew a long breath, and stooping over the hands she had given him, he kissed them.

Then he released her and, rising, walked away.  The portrait of Desmond had been brought back, but it stood with its face to the wall.  He went to it and turned it.  It shone out into the room, under the westering sun.  He looked at it a little—­while Elizabeth with trembling fingers began to re-arrange her table in the old way.

Then he returned to her, speaking in the dry, slightly peremptory voice she knew well.

’I hear the new buildings at the Holme Hill Farm are nearly ready.  Come and look at them to-morrow.  And there are some woods over there that would be worth examining.  The Air Board is still clamouring for more ash.’

Elizabeth agreed.  Her smile was a gleam through the mist.

’And, on the way back, Pamela and I must go and talk to the village—­about pigs and potatoes!’

‘Do you really know anything about either?’ he asked, incredulously.

‘Come and hear us!’

There was silence.  The Squire threw the window open to the April sunset.  The low light was shining through the woods, and on the reddening tops of the beeches.  There was a sparkle of leaf here and there, and already a ‘livelier emerald’ showed in the grass.  Suddenly a low booming sound—­repeated—­and repeated.

‘Guns?’ said the Squire, listening.

Elizabeth reminded him of the new artillery camp beyond Fallerton.

But the sounds had transformed the April evening.  The woods, the grass, the wood-pigeons in the park had disappeared.  The thoughts of both the on-lookers had gone across the sea to that hell of smoke and fire, in which their race—­in which England!—­stood at bay.  A few days—­or weeks—­or months, would decide.

The vastness of the issue, as it came flooding in upon the soul of Elizabeth, seemed to strain her very life—­to make suspense unbearable.

An anguish seized her, and unconsciously her lips framed the passionate words of an older patriotism—­

’Oh! pray—­pray for the peace of Jerusalem!  They shall prosper that love thee!’