ng no money, I caught a late train, and hid all night and next day
in the woods at Roselawn. Three times I saw Elise, but she was never
alone; but that night I called her with a cry of the night-jar which
she had taught me. She came out, and I told her as much as I could;
and with her necklace I raised some money and got away.'

Again the murmured words came to a close. Selwyn searched his mind for
some comment to make, but none would come. He could not offer sympathy
or condolence--Durwent wasn't seeking that. It was impossible to
condemn, or to suggest a new start in life, because the young fellow
was not trying to justify his actions. Yet it seemed such a tragedy to
look helplessly on without one effort to change the floating course of
the driftwood.

'Durwent,' he said haltingly, 'it's not too late for you to start over
again. If you will go to America, I have friends there who would give
you every opening and'----

'You're an awfully decent chap,' said Durwent, once more touching
Selwyn's hand with his; 'but I shall not come back from the war. I
felt _that_ the moment I stepped on shore yesterday. I felt it again
when that fellow spoke to me in the tavern. It may come soon, or it
may be a long time, but this is the end.'

'No, no,' said Selwyn earnestly; 'all that's the effect of your chill.
It has left you depressed.'

'You don't understand,' said the lad, smiling with closed eyes, 'or you
wouldn't say that. I said before that it means a lot, when a man's
down, to be able to see a little light ahead. . . . I can see that now
again. . . . It doesn't matter what I've been or done--I can go out
there now, and die like a gentleman. War gives us poor devils that
chance. . . . You know what I mean. My life has been no damned use to
any one, Selwyn, but they won't care about that in France. To die in
the trenches--that's my last chance to do something . . . to do
something that counts.'

Selwyn leaned over and patted the lad on his shoulder. 'Dick,' he
said, 'wait until the morning, and all these fancies will clear from
your mind. We'll discuss everything then together.'

The musing smile lingered again about the boy's lips.

'You're tired out, old man,' went on the American. 'I shouldn't have
waked you. Good-night.'

The other stopped him from rising by catching his arm with his hand.
'Do you mind,' said Dick, his eyes opening wide, 'just staying here
until I go to sleep? . . . There are