f
struck it, and it gave out a dry, metallic sound.

"Poor devil!" muttered the rider.

He dismounted and turned the figure over.

"God!" he said. "And water under him all the time!"

Then he dragged the quiet figure outside the ring of stones, and getting
a spade from his saddle, fell to digging in the center. A foot below the
surface water began to appear, clear, cold water. He lay down, flat and
drank out of the pool.

Clayton Spencer was alone in his house. In the months since Natalie had
gone, he had not been there a great deal. He had been working very hard.
He had not been able to shoulder arms, but he had, nevertheless, fought
a good fight.

He was very tired. During the day, a sort of fierce energy upheld him.
Because in certain things he had failed he was the more determined to
succeed in others. Not for himself; ambition of that sort had died of
the higher desire to serve his country. But because the sense of failure
in his private life haunted him.

The house was very quiet. Buckham came in to mend the fire, issuing from
the shadows like a lean old ghost and eyeing him with tender, faded old
eyes.

"Is there anything else, sir?"

"Thanks, no. Buckham."

"Yes, Mr. Spencer."

"I have not spoken about it, but I think you have understood. Mrs.
Spencer is--not coming back."

"Yes, Mr. Spencer."

"I had meant to close the house, but certain things--Captain Spencer's
wife expects a child. I would rather like to have her come here, for the
birth. After that, if the war is over, I shall turn the house over to
them. You would stay on, I hope, Buckham."

"I'll stay, sir. I--" His face worked nervously. "I feel toward the
Captain as I would to my own son, sir. I have already thought that
perhaps--the old nursery has been cleaned and aired for weeks, Mr.
Spencer."

Clayton felt a thrill of understanding for the old man through all the
years he had watched and served them. He had reflected their joys and
their sorrows. He had suffered the family destiny without having shaped
it. He had lived, vicariously, their good hours and their bad. And now,
in his old age, he was waiting again for the vicarious joy of Graham's
child.

"But you'll not be leaving the house, sir?"

"I don't know. I shall keep my rooms. But I shall probably live at
the club. The young people ought to be alone, for a while. There are
readjustments--You never married, Buckham?"

"No, Mr. Spencer. I intended to, at one time. I came