been rather overworked in
the hospital, and I was feeling ready to drop. I must only have imagined
my tiredness though, for when I heard about Brian I grew suddenly strong
as steel. I was given leave, and disinfected, and purified as thoroughly
as Esther when she was being made worthy of Ahasuerus. Then I dashed off
to catch the first train going north.

St. Raphael was our railway station, but I hadn't seen the place since I
took up work in the Hopital des Epidemies. That was many months before;
and meanwhile a training-school for American aviators had been started
at St. Raphael. News of its progress had drifted to our ears, but of
course the men weren't allowed to come within a mile of us: we were too
contagious. They had sent presents, though--presents of money, and one
grand gift had burst upon us from a young millionaire whose father's
name is known everywhere. He sent a cheque for a sum so big that we
nurses were nearly knocked down by the size of it. With it was enclosed
a request that the money should be used to put wire-nettings in all
windows and doors, and to build a roofed loggia for convalescents. If
there were anything left over, we might buy deck-chairs and air-pillows.
Of course it was easy for any one to know that we needed all these
things. Our lack was notorious. We sent a much disinfected,
carbolic-smelling round robin of thanks to "James W. Beckett, Junior,"
son of the western railway king.

As I drove to the _gare_ of St. Raphael, I thought of the kind boys who
had helped our poor _poilus_, and especially of James Beckett. Whether
he were still at the aviation camp, or had finished his training and
gone to the front, I didn't know: but I wafted a blessing to our
benefactor. I little dreamed then of the unforgivable injury I was fated
to do him! You see, Padre, I use the word "_fated_." That's because I've
turned coward. I try to pretend that fate has been too strong for me.
But down deep I know you were right when you said, "Our characters carve
our fate."

It was a long journey from the south to the north, where Brian was, for
in war-days trains do what they like and what nobody else likes. I
travelled for three days and nights, and when I came to my journey's
end, instead of Brian being dead as I'd seen him in a hundred hideous
dreams, the doctors held out hope that he might live. They told me this
to give me courage, before they broke the news that he would be blind. I
suppose they thought I