And then, when they only ask you to let your land grow food--that the German pirates and murderers mayn't starve us into a horrible submission--_then_ you bar your gates--you make endless trouble, when the country wants every hour of every man's time--you, in your position, give the lead to every shirker and coward! No! I can't bear it any more! I must go.

I have had happy times here--I love the work--I am very glad to earn the money, for my people want it.

But I must go.

My heart--my conscience won't let me stay!' She turned from him, with an unconscious gesture which seemed to the Squire to be somewhat mingled with that of the great Victory towering behind her, and went quickly back to her table, where she began with trembling hands to put her papers together.
The Squire tried to laugh it off.
'And all this,' he said with a sneer, 'because I tied up a few gates!' She made no reply.

He was conscious of mingled dismay and fury.
'You will stay your month ?' he inquired at last, coldly.