hought it mightn't
comfort his fiancy any--it not bein' personal, so to speak."

Desire frankly wiped her eyes. (It was fortunate that no one saw her do
this.)

"It's a beautiful story," she said.

"Well, if you think I ought to tell, I will. But if his fiancy says,
'Was there any message?' hadn't I best put in a little one--somethin'
comforting?"

"Oh--no."

"All right. Couldn't I just say that at the end he called out
'Amelia!'?"

"Oh, Mr. Timms!"

"Not quite playin' the game, eh? Well, then I won't. But it does seem
kind of skimp like.... There's the doctor waitin' at the gate."

CHAPTER XXV

It seemed to Desire, waiting in the garden, that the Sergeant was
taking an unnecessarily long time in telling his story. She had thought
it best that he should be left alone to tell it, so the doctor had gone
on to visit another patient, promising to call for her as he came back.

Desire waited. And, as she waited, she thought. And, as she thought,
she questioned. What had Benis meant when he had said, in that
whimsical way of his, "Well, my dear, it is your idea"? If he had not
approved of it, why hadn't he said so? It had seemed such a sensible
idea. An idea of which anyone might approve.... Why also had
Sergeant Timms been so reluctant to approach Miss Martin with the bare
(and, Desire thought, beautiful) truth? Because he feared it would rob
her of an illusion? But illusions are surely something which people are
better without?--aren't they?

The Sergeant came at last, twirling his cap and looking hot.

"Well?" asked Desire nervously.

"She'd like you to go in, Mrs. Spence, if you can spare the time. She
took it quite quiet. 'Thank you, Sergeant,' says she. And never a
question."

The two looked at each other and Desire saw her own doubt plainly
reflected upon the honest gaze of Robert Timms.

"I'll go in," she said. "The doctor will take me home."

In the invalid's room there was only quietness. Miss Martin sat in her
chair by the window; her plain, thin face had not sought to turn from
the searching light. Desire felt her heart begin to beat with the
beginnings of an understanding as new as it was revealing.

"Don't be sorry," Miss Martin's reassurance was instant. "I am glad to
know.... I always did know, anyway ... and it did not make any
difference ... If you can understand."

Desire nodded. "He must have been very wonderful," she said. In that
new and nameless understanding she forgot th