bbed visibly through the morning.

Chicksands, who must return to town in the afternoon, sat with him,
Pamela and Elizabeth opposite--Alice and Margaret not far away. The
two doctors watched their patient, and Martin whispered to Aubrey
Mannering, who had come down by a night train, that the struggle for
life could not last much longer.

Presently about one o'clock, Aubrey, who had been called out of the
room, came back and whispered something to Chicksands, who at once
went away. Elizabeth, looking up, saw agitation and expectancy in
the Major's look. But he said nothing.

In a few minutes Chicksands reappeared. He went straight to Desmond,
and knelt down by him.

'Desmond!' he said in a clear voice, 'the offensive's begun. The
Chief in my room at the War Office has just been telephoning me. It
began at eight this morning--on a front of fifty miles. Can you hear
me?' The boy opened his eyes--straining them on Arthur.

'It's begun!' he said eagerly--'begun! What have they done?'

'The bombardment opened at dawn--about five--the German infantry
attacked about eight. It's been going on the whole morning--and down
the whole front from Arras to the Scarpe.'

'And we've held?--we've _held_?'

'So far magnificently. Our outpost troops have been withdrawn to the
battle-zone--that's all. The line has held everywhere. The Germans
have lost heavily.'

'Outpost troops!' whispered the boy--'why, that's nothing! We always
expected--to lose the first line. Good old Army!'

A pause, and then--so faintly breathed as to be scarcely audible,
and yet in ecstasy--'England!--England!'

His joy was wonderful--heart-breaking--while all those around him
wept.

He lay murmuring to himself a little while, his hand in Pamela's.
Then for a last time he looked at his father, but was now too weak
to speak. His eyes, intently fixed on the Squire, kept their
marvellous brightness--no one knew how long. Then gently, as though
an unseen hand put out a light, the brilliance died away--the lids
fell--and with a few breaths Desmond's young life was past.

CHAPTER XVII

It was three weeks after Desmond's death. Pamela was sitting in the
'den' writing a letter to Arthur Chicksands at Versailles. The first
onslaught on Amiens was over. The struggle between Bethune and Ypres
was in full swing.

'DEAREST--This house is so strange--the world is so strange!
Oh, if I hadn't my work to do!--how could one bear it? It seems