w window, leaning out and seeming to hear
the dark world revolve in its course. Stars shook themselves clear from
great rustling trees, and were in time enmeshed by others. The waning
moon came up behind a rounded hill. A breeze fluttered down the dusty
road, and was silent.

Michael fell to wondering whether he could ever bring himself in tune
with these slow progressions of nature, whether he could renounce after
one haggard spell of experience the mazy stir of transitory emotions
that danced always beyond this dream. An Half-hour with St. John of the
Cross made him ask himself whether this were the dark night of the soul
through which he was passing. But he had never travelled yet, nor was he
travelling now. He was simply sitting quiescent, allowing himself to be
passed. These calm and stately figures of humanity whom he admired in
their seclusion had only reached it after long strife. Mrs. Carthew had
lost a husband and a son, had seen her daughter leave her house as a
governess. Joan and May had for many years sunk their hopes in tending
their mother. Nancy was away earning money, and would be entitled to
retire here one day. Mrs. Ross had endured himself and Stella for
several years, had married and lost her husband, and had borne a child.
All these had won their timeless repose and their serene uncloying ease.
They were not fossils, but perdurable images of stone. And his mother,
she was--he stopped his reverie. Of his mother he knew nothing. Outside
the dust stirred in the road fretfully; a malaise was in the night air.
Michael shivered and went back to bed, and as he turned to blow out his
candle he saw above him huge and menacing his own shadow. A cock crowed.

"Silly ass," muttered Michael, "he thinks it's already morning," and
turning over after a dreamless sleep he found it was morning. So he rose
and dressed himself serenely for a long sunburnt day.

On his way up the road to call for Alan he met the postman, who in
answer to his enquiries handed him a letter from South Africa stamped
all over with mysterious official abbreviations. He took it up to his
mother curiously.

At lunch he asked her about the news from the war.

"Yes, dear, I had a letter," she murmured.

"From Lord Saxby, I suppose?"

"Yes, dear."

"Anything interesting?" Michael persisted.

"Oh, no, it's only about marches and not being able to wash properly."

"I thought it might be interesting," Michael speculated.

"No, dear. I