the floor. He had a sensation of intolerable
sickness; then a pain beat like a hammer on one side of his head. He
staggered, and fell, headlong, at her feet.

CHAPTER XXXVIII

Anne, left alone at her writing-table, had worked on far into Friday
night. The trouble in her was appeased by the answering of letters, the
sorting of papers, the bringing of order into confusion. She had always
had great practical ability; she had proved herself a good organiser,
expert in the business of societies and committees.

In her preoccupation she had not noticed that her husband had left the
house, and that he did not return to it.

In the morning, as she left her room, the old nurse came to her with a
grave face, and took her into Majendie's room. Nanna pointed out to her
that his bed had not been slept in. Anne's heart sank. Later on, the
telegram he sent explained his absence. She supposed that he had slept
at the Ransomes' or the Hannays', and she thought no more of it. The
business of the day again absorbed her.

In the afternoon Canon Wharton called on her. It was the recognised visit
of condolence, delayed till her return. In his manner with Mrs. Majendie
there was no sign of the adroit little man of the world who had drunk
whiskey with Mrs. Majendie's husband the night before. His manner was
reticent, reverential, not obtrusively tender. He abstained from all the
commonplaces of consolation. He did not speak of the dead child; but
reminded her of the greater maternal work that God had called upon her
to do, and told her that the children of many mothers would rise up and
call her blessed. He bade her believe that her life, which seemed to her
ended, had in reality only just begun. He said that, if great natures
were reserved for great sorrows, great afflictions, they were also
dedicated to great uses. Uses to which their sorrows were the unique and
perfect training.

He left her strengthened, uplifted, and consoled.

On Sunday morning she attended the service at All Souls. In the afternoon
she walked to the great flat cemetery of Scale, where Edith's and Peggy's
graves lay side by side. In the evening she went again to All Souls.

The church services were now the only link left between her soul and
God. She clung desperately to them, trying to recapture through these
consecrated public methods the peace that should have been her most
private personal possession.

For, all the time, now, she was depressed by a