“It is terrible to think of, an unjust warfare. Were any women and
children killed at Maungatabu?”
“Yes,” he almost shouted back, “many were shot as they crossed the
swamp. And when they gained the fern two more were killed by that last
shell--a woman and child--my mother and my sister!”
He turned away again to the window, but not so quickly but that he could
see she was crying softly to herself, as she bent her face over the
table.
*****
Three days after, Mrs. Torringley showed her nephew a note that she had
found on her niece's dressing-table:--
“Do not blame me. I cannot help it. I love him, and am going
away with him to another country. Perhaps it is my mother's
blood. Wipe me out of your memory for ever.”