weet woman."

"It's a sort of presence in the room. I wish I were like her!"

Fort turned. "No," he said; "no. Better as you are. It would only have
spoiled a complete thing."

"She was good."

"And aren't you?"

"Oh! no. I get a devil."

"You! Why, you're out of a fairy-tale!"

"It comes from Daddy--only he doesn't know, because he's a perfect saint;
but I know he's had a devil somewhere, or he couldn't be the saint he
is."

"H'm!" said Fort. "That's very deep: and I believe it's true--the saints
did have devils."

"Poor Daddy's devil has been dead ages. It's been starved out of him, I
think."

"Does your devil ever get away with you?"

Noel felt her cheeks growing red under his stare, and she turned to the
window:

"Yes. It's a real devil."

Vividly there had come before her the dark Abbey, and the moon balancing
over the top of the crumbling wall, and the white owl flying across.
And, speaking to the air, she said:

"It makes you do things that you want to do."

She wondered if he would laugh--it sounded so silly. But he did not.

"And damn the consequences? I know. It's rather a jolly thing to have."

Noel shook her head. "Here's Daddy coming back!"

Fort held out his hand.

"I won't stay. Good night; and don't worry too much, will you?"

He kept her hand rather a long time, and gave it a hard squeeze.

Don't worry! What advice! Ah! if she could see Cyril just for a minute!

2

In September, 1916, Saturday still came before Sunday, in spite of the
war. For Edward Pierson this Saturday had been a strenuous day, and even
now, at nearly midnight, he was still conning his just-completed sermon.

A patriot of patriots, he had often a passionate longing to resign his
parish, and go like his curate for a chaplain at the Front. It seemed to
him that people must think his life idle and sheltered and useless. Even
in times of peace he had been sensitive enough to feel the cold draughty
blasts which the Church encounters in a material age. He knew that nine
people out of ten looked on him as something of a parasite, with no real
work in the world. And since he was nothing if not conscientious, he
always worked himself to the bone.

To-day he had risen at half-past six, and after his bath and exercises,
had sat down to his sermon--for, even now, he wrote a new sermon once a
month, though he had the fruits of twenty-six years to choose from.
True, these new sermons were rat