ning, the three met in the hall, and Desmond asked for a Prayer-book.

"I've lost mine," he murmured.

That afternoon, when they were alone upon the splendid moor above
Stoneycross, Desmond said suddenly--

"Religion means a lot to you, Jonathan, doesn't it?"

"Yes."

"But you never talk about it."

"No."

"Why not?"

"I don't know how to begin."

"There's such sickening hypocrisy in this world."

John nodded.

"But your religion is a help to you, eh? Keeps you straight?"

John nodded again. Then Desmond said with an air of finality--

"I wish I'd some of your faith. I want it badly."

"If you want it badly, you will get it."

A long silence succeeded. Then Desmond exclaimed--

"Hullo! By Jove, there's a fox, a splendid fellow! He's come up here
amongst the rabbits for a Sunday dinner. Gone awa-a-a-ay!"

He put his hand to his mouth and halloaed. A minute later he was
talking of hunting. Religion was not mentioned till they were
approaching the house for tea. On the threshold, Desmond said with a
nervous laugh--

"I'd like your mother to give me a Prayer-book--a small one, nothing
expensive."

During the following week they hunted with fox hounds or stag-hounds
every day, except Wednesday. In the New Forest the Easter hunting is
unique. Tremendous fellows come down from the shires--masters of
famous packs, thrusters, keen to see May foxes killed. And the Forest
entertains them handsomely, you may be sure. Big hampers are unpacked
under the oaks which may have been saplings when William Rufus ruled in
England; there are dinners, and, of course, a hunt-ball in the ancient
village of Lyndhurst. But as each pleasant day passed, John told
himself that the end was drawing near. This was almost the last
holidays Caesar and he would spend together; and, afterwards, would
this friendship, so romantic a passion with one at least of them--would
it wither away, or would it endure to the end?

At the end of a fortnight, Desmond returned to Eaton Square. Upon the
eve of departure, Mrs. Verney gave him a small Prayer-book.

"I have written something in it," she said; "but don't open it now."

He looked at the fly-leaf as the train rolled out of Lyndhurst Station.
Upon it, in Mrs. Verney's delicate handwriting, were a few lines.
First his name and the date. Below, a text--"Unto whomsoever much is
given, of him shall be much required." And, below that again, a verse--

"Not thankful whe