her compiled than written, because,
bereft of his curate, he had not time enough for fresh thought on old
subjects. At eight he had breakfasted with Noel, before she went off to
her hospital, whence she would return at eight in the evening. Nine to
ten was his hour for seeing parishioners who had troubles, or wanted help
or advice, and he had received three to-day who all wanted help, which he
had given. From ten to eleven he had gone back to his sermon, and had
spent from eleven to one at his church, attending to small matters,
writing notices, fixing hymns, holding the daily half-hour Service
instituted during wartime, to which but few ever came. He had hurried
back to lunch, scamping it so that he might get to his piano for an hour
of forgetfulness. At three he had christened a very noisy baby, and been
detained by its parents who wished for information on a variety of
topics. At half-past four he had snatched a cup of tea, reading the
paper; and had spent from five to seven visiting two Parish Clubs, and
those whose war-pension matters he had in hand, and filling up forms
which would be kept in official places till such time as the system
should be changed and a fresh set of forms issued. From seven to eight he
was at home again, in case his flock wanted to see him; to-day four sheep
had come, and gone away, he was afraid, but little the wiser. From
half-past eight to half-past nine he had spent in choir practice, because
the organist was on his holiday. Slowly in the cool of the evening he had
walked home, and fallen asleep in his chair on getting in. At eleven he
had woken with a start, and, hardening his heart, had gone back to his
sermon. And now, at nearly midnight, it was still less than twenty
minutes long. He lighted one of his rare cigarettes, and let thought
wander. How beautiful those pale pink roses were in that old silver
bowl-like a little strange poem, or a piece of Debussy music, or a
Mathieu Maris picture-reminding him oddly of the word Leila. Was he
wrong in letting Noel see so much of Leila? But then she was so
improved--dear Leila!... The pink roses were just going to fall! And
yet how beautiful!... It was quiet to-night; he felt very drowsy....
Did Nollie still think of that young man, or had it passed? She had
never confided in him since! After the war, it would be nice to take her
to Italy, to all the little towns. They would see the Assisi of St.
Francis. The Little Flowers o