On New Year’s Eve he was sitting in his study after tea, at that hour which he tried to keep for his parishioners, when a Mrs. Mitchett was announced, a small bookseller’s wife, whom he knew for an occasional Communicant.  She came in, accompanied by a young dark-eyed girl in a loose mouse-coloured coat.  At his invitation they sat down in front of the long bookcase on the two green leather chairs which had grown worn in the service of the parish; and, screwed round in his chair at the bureau, with his long musician’s fingers pressed together, he looked at them and waited.  The woman had taken out her handkerchief, and was wiping her eyes; but the girl sat quiet, as the mouse she somewhat resembled in that coat.

“Yes, Mrs. Mitchett?” He said gently, at last.

The woman put away her handkerchief, sniffed resolutely, and began: 

“It’s ’Ilda, sir.  Such a thing Mitchett and me never could ’ave expected, comin’ on us so sudden.  I thought it best to bring ’er round, poor girl.  Of course, it’s all the war.  I’ve warned ’er a dozen times; but there it is, comin’ next month, and the man in France.”  Pierson instinctively averted his gaze from the girl, who had not moved her eyes from his face, which she scanned with a seeming absence of interest, as if she had long given up thinking over her lot, and left it now to others.

“That is sad,” he said; “very, very sad.”

“Yes,” murmured Mrs. Mitchett; “that’s what I tell ’Ilda.”

The girl’s glance, lowered for a second, resumed its impersonal scrutiny of Pierson’s face.

“What is the man’s name and regiment?  Perhaps we can get leave for him to come home and marry Hilda at once.”

Mrs. Mitchett sniffed.  “She won’t give it, sir.  Now, ’Ilda, give it to Mr. Pierson.”  And her voice had a real note of entreaty.  The girl shook her head.  Mrs. Mitchett murmured dolefully:  “That’s ’ow she is, sir; not a word will she say.  And as I tell her, we can only think there must ’ave been more than one.  And that does put us to shame so!”

But still the girl made no sign.

“You speak to her, sir; I’m really at my wit’s end.”

“Why won’t you tell us?” said Pierson.  “The man will want to do the right thing, ’I’m sure.”

The girl shook her head, and spoke for the first time.

“I don’t know his name.”

Mrs. Mitchett’s face twitched.

“Oh, dear!” she said:  “Think of that!  She’s never said as much to us.”

“Not know his name?” Pierson murmured.  “But how—­how could you—­” he stopped, but his face had darkened.  “Surely you would never have done such a thing without affection?  Come, tell me!”

“I don’t know it,” the girl repeated.

“It’s these Parks,” said Mrs. Mitchett, from behind her handkerchief.  “And to think that this’ll be our first grandchild and all!  ’Ilda is difficult; as quiet, as quiet; but that stubborn—­”