Lady Charlton saw life in pictures and so did Rose.  Neither of them broke through any reserve; neither of them was curious.  It did not occur to Rose to wonder how her mother had lived and felt in her first days as a widow.  Lady Charlton did not wonder how Rose felt now.  Rose, she thought, was wonderful; life was full of mercies; there was so much to be thankful for; and could not those who had suffered be of great consolation to others in sorrow?

They arranged to meet at Evensong in St. Paul’s Chapel, and then Lady Charlton would come back and stay the night.  On the next day she was due at the house of her youngest married daughter.

Rose was presently left alone, and she cried quite simply.  For a moment she thought of Edmund Grosse and the sadness in his eyes.  Why had he not volunteered for the war?  What a contrast!

A large photograph of Sir David in his general’s uniform stood on the writing-table in the study downstairs.  There were also a picture and a miniature in the drawing-room, but Rose thought she would like to look at the photograph again.  It was the last that had been taken.  Then too she would look over some of his things.  She wanted little presents for his special friends; nothing for its own value, but because the hero had used them.  And she would like to bring the big photograph upstairs.

The study, usually cold and deserted since the master had gone away, was bright with a large fire.  Rose did not know that it was an expression of sympathy from the under-housemaid, whose lover was at the war.  But when she stood opposite the big photograph of the fine manly face and figure, and the large open eyes looked so straight into hers, she shrank a little.  Something in the room made her shrink into herself.  Her eyes rested on the Victoria Cross in the photograph, on the medals that had covered his breast.  “I shall have them all,” she said, and then she faltered a little.  She had faltered in that room before now; she had often shrunk into herself when the intensely courteous voice had asked her as she came into his study what she wanted.  She blamed herself gently now, and for two opposite reasons:  she blamed herself because she had wanted what she had not got, and she blamed herself because she had not done more to get it.  “He was always so gentle, so courteous.  I ought to have been quite, quite happy.  And why didn’t I break through our reserve, and then we might——­” Dimly she felt, but she did not want to own it to herself, that she had married him as a hero-worshipper.  She had reverenced him more than she loved him.  “I ought not to have done it,” she thought, “but I meant what was right, and I could have loved him——­ Oh, I did love him afterwards—­only I never could tell him, and——­” Further thoughts led the way to irreverence, even to something worse.  They were wrong thoughts, thoughts against faith and truth and right; there was no place for such thoughts in Rose’s heart.  She moved