d she was really
in a horrible position. It's so good for the baby, too, and only fair
to him. I do think one must take things as they are, Dad dear. It was
impossible to mend Nollie's wing. If she were a fighter, and gloried
in it, or if she were the sort who would 'take the veil'--but she isn't
either. So it is all right, Dad. She's writing to you herself. I'm sure
Leila didn't want Jimmy Fort to be unhappy because he couldn't love her;
or she would never have gone away. George sends you his love; we are
both very well. And Nollie is looking splendid still, after her harvest
work. All, all my love, Dad dear. Is there anything we can get, and send
you? Do take care of your blessed self, and don't grieve about Nollie.

"GRATIAN."

A half-sheet of paper fluttered down; he picked it up from among the
parched fibre of dead palm-leaves.

"DADDY DARLING,

"I've done it. Forgive me--I'm so happy.

"Your NOLLIE."

The desert shimmered, the palm-leaves rustled, and Pierson stood trying
to master the emotion roused in him by those two letters. He felt no
anger, not even vexation; he felt no sorrow, but a loneliness so utter
and complete that he did not know how to bear it. It seemed as if some
last link with life had' snapped. 'My girls are happy,' he thought.
'If I am not--what does it matter? If my faith and my convictions
mean nothing to them--why should they follow? I must and will not feel
lonely. I ought to have the sense of God present, to feel His hand in
mine. If I cannot, what use am I--what use to the poor fellows in there,
what use in all the world?'

An old native on a donkey went by, piping a Soudanese melody on a little
wooden Arab flute. Pierson turned back into the hospital humming it. A
nurse met him there.

"The poor boy at the end of A ward is sinking fast, sir; I expect he'd
like to see you."

He went into A ward, and walked down between the beds to the west window
end, where two screens had been put, to block off the cot. Another
nurse, who was sitting beside it, rose at once.

"He's quite conscious," she whispered; "he can still speak a little.
He's such a dear." A tear rolled down her cheek, and she passed out
behind the screens. Pierson looked down at the boy; perhaps he was
twenty, but the unshaven down on his cheeks was soft and almost
colourless. His eyes were closed. He breathed regularly, and did not
seem in pain; but there was about him that which told he was going;
something re