With a little thrill, half pain, half pleasure, she noted each well-remembered landmark.  There was the arbour where they used to shelter from a shower, built with sloped boards at its entrance so that Patrick’s chair could easily be wheeled into it; now they were passing the horse-chestnut tree which she herself had planted years ago—­with the head gardener’s assistance!—­in place of one that had been struck by lightning.  It had grown into a sturdy young sapling by this time.  Here was the Queen’s Bench—­an old stone seat where Queen Elisabeth was supposed to have once sat and rested for a few minutes when paying a visit to Barrow Court.  Sara reflected, with a smile, that if history speaks truly, the Virgin Queen must have spent quite a considerable portion of her time in visiting the houses of her subjects!  And here—­

“Sara!” Tim’s voice broke suddenly across the recollections that were thronging into her mind.  There was a curious intent quality in his tone that arrested her attention, filling her with a nervous foreboding of what he had to say.

“Sara, you know, of course, as well as I do, that I am going to volunteer.  I let mother send for you, because—­well, because I thought you would make it a little easier for her, for one thing.  But I had another reason.”

“Had you?” Sara spoke mechanically.  They had paused beside the Queen’s Bench, and half-unconsciously she laid her ungloved hand caressingly on the seat’s high back.  The stone struck cold against the warmth of her flesh.

“Yes.”  Tim was speaking again, still in that oddly direct manner.  “I want to ask you—­now, before I go to France—­whether there will ever be any chance for me?”

Sara turned her eyes to his face.

“You mean——­”

“I mean that I’m asking you once again if you will marry me?  If you will—­if I can go away leaving my wife in England, I shall have so much the more to fight for.  But if you can’t give me the answer I wish—­well”—­with a curious little smile—­“it will make death easier, should it come—­that’s all.”

The quiet, grave directness of the speech was very unlike the old, impetuous Tim of former days.  It brought with it to Sara’s mind a definite recognition of the fact that the man had replaced the boy.

“No, Tim,” she responded quietly.  “I made one mistake—­in promising to marry you when I loved another man.  I won’t repeat it.”

“But”—­Tim’s face expressed sheer wonder and amazement—­“you don’t still care for Garth Trent—­for that blackguard?  Oh!” remorsefully, as he saw her wince—­“forgive me, Sara, but this war makes one feel even more bitterly about such a thing than one would in normal times.”

“I know—­I understand,” she replied quietly.  “I’m—­ashamed of loving him.”  She turned her head restlessly aside.  “But, don’t you see, love can’t be made and unmade to order.  It just happens.  And it’s happened to me.  In the circumstances, I can’t say I like it.  But there it is.  I do love Garth—­and I can’t unlove him.  At least, not yet.”