ained cords, girt with a belt of vari-coloured webbing, his
muddy leather leggings and boots with their caked and dusty spurs, telling
of hard service and unresting activity.

But he looked radiantly handsome as he leapt to the ground and came
forward, his tall athletic figure, trained by arduous toil and incessant
work until the last superfluous ounce of flesh had vanished, looking the
personification of manliness, his tanned face, still clean-shaven save for
the slight fair moustache, one to set any maiden dreaming of its straight
clean-cut features and lazy, long-shaped grey-green eyes. The wide felt
hat he touched in salute sat with a jaunty air on the close-cropped golden
head. Here was a gallant, heartsome vision to greet Lynette, stepping
after the Mother into that outer world, where fire belched warning from
iron mouths, and steel destruction sped through the skies, and bullets
sang like hornets past your head, or hit the ground near your feet,
sending up little bushy columns and spirts of dust.

The wounded man, now carbolised, plugged, and bandaged by Saxham's
dexterous hands, took the hastily-scrawled admission-order, included his
officer, the ladies, and the Doctor in a left-handed salute, distributed a
parting wink among his comrades, counselled W. Keyse in a hoarse whisper
to go tender on the off-side G of the instrument he dandled, and trudged
sturdily away in the direction of the Hospital.

"Thank you, ma'am. There's no stealing a march on you," Beauvayse said to
the Mother-Superior, touching his hat with his gay, swaggering grace, as
she emptied a bowl of red water on the ground, and whisked the blue apron
and sleeves back into the vast recesses of the mysterious pocket. "But
you're spoiling us. Hot water isn't on tap, as a rule, for
Field-dressings, and--and won't you----" He reddened to the fair untanned
skin upon his temples. "Mayn't I ask, ma'am, to be introduced to Miss
Mildare?"

The Mother complied with his request, smiling indulgently. She had known
and loved this bright boy's mother in her early married days. The Dark
Rose of Ireland and the White Rose of Devon, a noted Society phrasemonger
had dubbed them, seeing them together on the lawn one Ascot Cup Day, their
light draperies and delicate ribbons whip-whipping in the pleasant June
breeze, ivory-skinned, jetty-locked Celtic beauty and blue-eyed,
flaxen-locked Saxon fairness in charming, confidential juxtaposition under
one lace sunshade,