had gone out of their heaven. There was no light in the world.
Having known Death as a familiar foe, and having fought against
its terrors; having only by the grace of God been able to lift up
a man's voice in my hour of awful bereavement, and cry, "O Death,
where is thy sting, O Grave, thy Victory?" I could suffer with
them and fear for their reason. They lived in a state of coma,
unaware of life, performing, like automata, their daily tasks.

Then, in the early days of August, came the Trumpet of War, and
they awakened. In my life have I seen nothing so marvellous. No
broken spell of enchantment in an Arabian tale when dead warriors
spring into life was ever more instant and complete. They arose in
their full vigour; the colour came back to their cheeks and the
purpose into their eyes. They laughed once more. Their days were
filled with work and cheerfulness. In November Sir Anthony was
elected Mayor. Being a practical, hard-headed little man, loved
and respected by everybody, he drove a hitherto contentious Town
Council into paths of high patriotism like a flock of sheep. And
no less energy did Lady Fenimore exhibit in the sphere of her own
activities.

A few days after the tidings came of Oswald's death, Sir Anthony
was riding through the town and pulled up before Perkins' the
fishmonger's. Perkins emerged from his shop and crossed the
pavement.

"I hear you've had bad news."

"Yes, indeed, Sir Anthony."