The Middle of the Road. Philip Gibbs

he said. “What’s to be done?”

      Rose O’Brien answered him.

      “There’s nothing to do but pray.”

      Betty O’Brien saw something else to do.

      “I’ll go to Dublin to-night. If the dirty Black and Tans touch me with a little finger—I’ll lay a whip across their faces. I’m Irish, body and soul.”

      “Hush, Betty, for the love of God!” said Rose, and Jane, the youngest, said, “Be quiet, darling!”

      It was Jane who showed Bertram out of the house, after he had written a line to Susan, in case Betty saw her.

      The girl touched his arm, and whispered to him:

      “I’m not Sinn Fein, like Rose and Betty. I’m sure our Lord wouldn’t like it. But I’m Dennis’s sister, and he’s the noblest boy I know. Dear God! what will I do if they take him from us?”

      She leant up against the door-post and wept bitterly but very quietly.

      “They’ll send him to prison for a time,” said Bertram; “it’s not so terrible.”

      He kissed her hand, to make her understand his sympathy.

      “God help Ireland—and England!” he said, and then lifted his hat and walked away. If he had been wholly Irish, he would have been Sinn Fein too. His passion would have flamed out for Irish liberty. But he was the son of an English mother, and loved England first and best. Why was he always pulled two ways? Why did this infernal tug-of-war go on in his heart and brain, between the extremes of thought? Most men walked on one side or the other, on their own side of life’s hedge. He tried to keep to the middle of the road, and both sides flung stones at him.